


un sussurro nel vento

by TRASHCAKE



Category: NCT (Band), WayV (Band)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Magic, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Dubious Morality, Fictional Religion & Theology, Immortality, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Minor Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Redemption, Time Skips, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-10 22:22:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18417035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TRASHCAKE/pseuds/TRASHCAKE
Summary: Ten deals in death while Hendery embraces eternity.





	un sussurro nel vento

**Author's Note:**

> Four months of screaming later, it's finally here. Big thanks to those on TL who have been putting up with my No Context Tendery Tweets and to those whose DM's I've been camped in (you know who you are)
> 
> Um. There is an age gap. A really big one. Ten basically raises Hendery. Though none of the romance actually happens until Hendery is in his mid-twenties, it's something to be aware of. A side pairing are also referred to as brothers for most of the fic. They're not related by blood, nor are they even legally recognised as bothers, but that could make people uncomfortable so I thought I'd warn. The child abuse is not explicitly shown but the results of it are. This fic isn't as bad as my tags make it out to be, but I want everyone to make it through without any potential triggers.

Witches. Immortal, immoral. Marks inked into skin, trapping magic beneath flesh. Eccentric, adored, _feared_. Ten has met very few of his kind, so he feeds rumours and builds a stereotype all on his own. 

The word _witch_ is associated with the most terrible of things: death, tragedy, heartbreak. But most notably, it is associated with Ten himself. The bringer of sorrow, the immortal, the _witch_. 

He has come to despise the title. 

Mortals don’t possess the proper vernacular to describe him and lack the capacity to define him. Ten takes their titles ( _witch, magician, sorcerer_ ) and responds accordingly. Sometimes with acknowledgement to their fearful pleas, at other times with curses that will extend through bloodlines. 

Ten is so many things. And none of them can be summed up with a title like _witch_. 

The magic he possesses is not inherited, it is given and Ten has been chosen by the pickiest of masters. Magic acts on a whim, reacts with childish pettiness when wronged. It is an indescribable blessing, an irreversible curse. 

A vessel for an omnipotent child, yet one of the lucky few. Ten treads a fine line: he deals in darkness for a price, promises of dreams come true if the amount is high enough. 

But when the magic decides it has been used for impurity, immorality, greed; it strikes. People die, lives are ruined, curses descend on families. 

And Ten washes his hands of it all. Because magic is picky, magic is petty and Ten is one and the same. 

The city blooms around him, its citizens taking him for granted more often as the decades crawl by. He graciously gives over parts of his land to the masses, houses standing where acres of gardens once grew. All he asks is that in return, they build their sprawling cobblestone streets around the remainder of his plants. 

Some listen, some do not. When the greed is too much, the potential of Ten’s modest cottage and abundant land becomes an irresistible temptation; they come. Snapdragons hiss and snarl at their feet, vines retract from the cottage walls to ensnare and trip. Developers arrive with force and leave broken and cursed. 

As such, no God-fearing mortal dares to approach Ten at his home, only when out and about on his daily errands, dealing magic in the winding backstreets of the cobblestone city. 

No God-fearing mortal dares to approach the house. 

But the child from up the road fears nothing; not death, nor magic, and especially not Ten himself. 

\------

There is a child that Ten often sees while running errands in town. Dragged around by the wrist or ear, he assumes that the boy is insolent, disrespectful. Publicly humiliated by his parents as punishment for misbehaving. 

But Ten’s plants don’t take kindly to impure strangers, and yet they seem to love the small boy. 

Ten observes the curious sight from behind the curtains of his kitchen window; vines twist around his pinky finger, holding delicately onto whatever part of him they can reach. The flowers turn to him as if he were a source of light and warmth, giggling in glee as the child strokes along their petals. 

Even the snapdragons, the most temperamental of all Ten’s plants, shiver and coo under his touch. 

It’s curious, the way the plants react to the boy. Infused with magic, they’re as sentient as Ten is. They will snarl and ensnare visitors with ill intent. Ten’s plants will attack those trying to steal them, but react like puppies when visited by a trespassing child. 

After checking his pocket watch, the boy bids a hasty farewell to the plants, scrambling over the fence with great difficulty. The scene has Ten laughing, unbidden, for the child could simply use the gate if he wished. Knee high socks, the current trend for schoolboys, fall down to his ankles as he hurries down the street. 

Ten watches after him as he goes, oddly fond and overbearingly curious. 

\------

_When will Kunhang be back?_

“Oh?” Ten enquiries, sprinkling the last of the water over his peonies. “Was that his name?”

The plants speak to him through magic, less conversation and more an implication of thought in his head. Telepathy, of sorts, but when Ten listens closely, the rustling of wind through leaves sounds almost like a whisper. 

_I like Kunhang._

“Yes, it did seem that way.” 

_Heal him_

“I beg your pardon?” Ten pauses in his task, brushing the accumulated dirt from the bottom of his cloak. 

_He touches with broken hands. He needs to be healed._

Kunhang’s hands seem fine from Ten’s perspective. He climbs clumsily, but without visible pain. But the plants, they are magic. They know more than Ten, as much as it pains him to admit it. 

“You know the rules,” Ten sighs, “I will only help when he asks for it.” 

_Then he will ask. I will make sure of it._

\------

Ten is aware that he is feared. He delights in it, revels in it. Fear of his power ensures that only the shameless and the ignorant come in search of his services, and Ten can take pride in the part he plays in their paid dues. 

It is often said that bumping into Ten as he traverses the street is enough provocation for a curse. The skittish, terrified mortals leave him a wide berth as he goes about his daily business. It is an ageless fear, one that will extend through eternity.

The soft tinkling of his bracelets is enough to silence an entire street. The marks on his body, magic branded into his skin, are so grotesque in the eyes of mortals that they avert them. 

He parts entire crowds with a subtle cough or the flick of his cloak. They fear him, as they have for so long feared him.

It is a paranoia that they, too, will pass down to their children. 

Kunhang’s parents have either failed to pass on the warnings, or he has explicitly chosen not to heed them. 

Ten arrives home, groceries in hand with his new cloak hovering in the air behind him. He doesn’t need magic to carry things, but he enjoys the look of terror on the faces of mortals as he travels through the city, belongings floating harmlessly around him. 

Besides, the tailor did magnificent work on his new cloak-- all purple velvet and embellished stones-- and it would be an awful shame for it to be muddy before he even has a chance to wear it. 

Kunhang sits in the garden, his newfound place amongst the snapdragons. They dance around him as he giggles, poking crooked fingers into their open mouths, where they chew lightly on his fingernails. 

He spots Ten and freezes in shock. The flowers, seemingly unhappy with the lack of attention, begin to chatter and purr, rubbing themselves on his calf like kittens. 

“As you were, Kunhang,” Ten dismisses him with a wave of his hand. 

If the child responds, Ten doesn’t hear it over the sound of his front door closing behind him.

\------

When Ten practices his craft, he draws from the magic that surrounds him, using his body as a conductor for its whims. He channels it through his marks and brands, expels it do act upon his wishes. Magic makes contact with his skin, burns through his veins and escapes from his fingertips. 

He barely feels anything as he focuses the magic, so different from an age ago when the sensation would cause him numb with shock. 

Ten experiences a different kind of numbness, now. One caused by the knowledge of his craft and the ways in which it is used. He extends his fingers, invites the magic to work and fully understands that someone is about to die.

He no longer cares.

It is not his fault when lives are lost. The people do not blame the blacksmith when his swords cause widows, but when there is magic involved then Ten is the villain, the perpetrator. Nevermind he who commissions the poison, the curse, the potion. Nor does the blame lie on those who deliver them to their victims. 

It is Ten’s fault, pure and simple, in the eyes of the law. 

But the law enforcement has stopped holding him accountable; Ten cannot be killed and he cannot be contained. 

The hangman’s noose slips free from his neck. Destructive flames light the runes on his forearms; deep, black markings that absorb the heat and the light. 

Other, more barbaric attempts at his life are met with a reversal spell, his executioners found in his place. Bars cannot hold him, and the city is lucky he follows their rules most of the time. 

It is the main reason why they fear him. 

And if Ten says he doesn’t relish in the terror, he is lying. 

\------

Potions are Ten’s least favourite form of magic. He prefers to entrance with a wave of his hand, magic buzzing beneath the skin. But the mortals, they like things easy, without showmanship. They like potions and poisons-- Ten’s beloved plants sacrificing parts of themselves for the greed of others.

Love potions are by far the worst. Ten pours his pettiness, his malice, his will for chaos into each vial. Misfortune and ruin, but rose-scented and wrapped in ribbon. They’re hot ticket items with the most exorbitant of price tags. 

Made for fools who cannot woo the object of their lust without the help of Ten and magic. Rarely does he keep up with the gossip of his customers and the lives outside his door, but stories of impotence and love dissolved over time has him giddy with unbearable schadenfreude. 

With but a few steps remaining for his current batch, he is disrupted, quite suddenly, by a series of short knocks on his door.

Curious for someone to make a house call, especially without the darkness of night to cover their arrival. It is mid-afternoon, the sun still bright and crowds still swirling through the city.

With a sigh, Ten enchants a nearby spoon to continue his work; keeping the potion in constant movement as the recipe requires.

Kunhang stands behind the heavy wooden door, hands clasped in front of him, his eyes covered by the dip of his head and the hat forced onto messy hair. 

It’s shocking for Ten to observe the child up close. He sees, finally, what the plants have been whispering about, their concerns reaching his mind through the breeze. Kunhang is thin-- though slight of frame-- the protrusion of bones beneath skin has him seeming almost skeletal. His arms and chest are covered by the smart tweed of his jacket, but his knees are exposed, bruised and scarred. 

At Ten’s silence, he risks an upwards glance, revealing the split in his lip and yellowing bruise on his cheek. The marks of an insolent child to some, but the magic whispers to Ten, telling him that not all is as it seems.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Sir,” Kunhang says quietly, politely. “But may I please have some water?” 

“Of course,” Ten ushers the boy inside, making sure he is not seen by those passing by. God forbid he add _child stealer_ to his list of deviances. “But are you sure you wouldn’t prefer tea?” 

His unusual kindness is drawn from his garden, from the magic that sleeps within it. A mysterious force which cannot be explained, nor disobeyed. He is one with it, and therefore, the will of the magic becomes the will of his own.

“It’s not for me, Sir,” Kunhang pulls off his hat respectfully as he enters, wrings it nervously in his hands. “It’s for your plants. They’re very thirsty.” 

Ten has already watered the plants, the cool temperature ensuring that the droplets have not yet evaporated. More water would only dampen roots, cause sickness.

“ _Heal him_ ,” says a whisper on the wind. Ten sighs, closing his front door and tries to come to terms with the unusual selflessness of his actions.

“Did they tell you that?” Ten begins to make tea, nonetheless. Magic buzzes around him, desperate for use. He enchants his dishware to dance around the tables, puppeteering them until his fingers grow numb.

Kunhang giggles, enraptured by the spectacle. 

Ten smiles, genuinely, for the first time in what feels like decades. 

“Your plants talk,” Kunhang says, curiously extending his finger to a teaspoon. The cutlery bows and the child giggles once more. “Did you know that?”

“They rarely shut up,” Ten replies absentmindedly, looking through his collection of teas. Payment comes in many forms and Ten is partial to accepting rare blends as part of it.

In a moment of either weakness or ego, he decides to use one of the more expensive brews for part of their afternoon tea. Out of kindness or in an attempt to show off, he does not quite know. 

“How do you take your tea, Kunhang?” Ten asks, wiggling his fingers to stop the dancing crockery. They fall gently onto the wooden tabletop, set in place for afternoon tea.

“As I am told to,” he replies, still twisting his hat in his hands. “How do you know my name?” 

“The plants told me, as I am sure they have told you mine.”

“Chittaphon,” Kunhang mumbles quietly. “Your name, Sir, it’s Chittaphon.” 

Midway through enchanting his kettle, Ten stills at the mention of his birth name. The only living being aware of his title is his Master, a man whom Ten has not seen in near one hundred years. He is the one who took the name from him, replaced it with one dictated by magic. 

It is a symbol of rebirth, from human to vessel. 

The plants, so filled with magic, have decided to impart upon the child such dangerous knowledge. There are implications, ones Ten refuses to dwell on, that comes with such a revelation.

“Call me Ten,” he says, after a moment. “And tell me how you’d like your tea.”

“Do you perhaps have sugar?” Kunhang’s eyes widen at the thought. He must know at least something about Ten. Sugar is a treat offered only to the upper class, and Ten’s earnings definitely allow him such luxuries. 

“Of course I do.”

He summons the small glass bowl from the counter, places it gently on the table in front of Kunhang. He does so without even lifting a finger. 

Kunhang looks so sombre and morose, though until there is magic in the room. He lights up, his childish wonder reminding Ten of his younger self, so many years ago. 

“How old are you, anyway?” Ten asks, watching as Kunhang drops three whole sugar cubes into his tea. 

“Nine,” he replies, taking a sip. Then another. He takes a large gulp of his tea, savouring what must be an unbearable level of sweetness. “But I’m turning ten, soon.” 

“Good age,” Ten doesn’t ruin the flavour of his tea with sugar, but he does add a dash of milk. “Good number.” 

Kunhang downs the rest of his tea, before checking the time on his pocket watch. It’s an expensive one, well made and well kept. He must be of higher standing than Ten originally thought. 

“Thank you for your hospitality,” he says, suddenly in a rush. “But I really must be going.” 

“You didn’t even water the plants,” Ten points out, his eyebrow raised in amusement. 

“I trust you to do that for me,” Kunhang replies, the first hint of a personality shining through his words. “But really, I’m already late.” 

“Alright, then,” Ten replies, unbearably curious for the first time in so, so long.

The boy leaves in a whirlwind of hurry, slamming his hat over his head as he runs out the door, forgetting to close it behind him. He stops, halfway down the path before turning tail and heading back. 

“Sorry,” he breathes, before closing it with finality. 

Ten sits, steam furling from the teacup in his hand. He feels the presence of magic, unbidden for the first time in his life. The house falls silent, overwhelmed by its sudden appearance. Time freezes, ceases to exist. The world melts away until the only things remaining are Ten and magic.

It is a sign of things to come, when the world becomes dark and Ten is left alone, mad with indescribable age and constant contact with the unknown. His fate as a vessel, is one he has known for so very long.

The tea in his hands begins to boil, drawing Ten from his trance. It burns at his fingers, the pain causing a shock that has him nearly dropping the cup to the floor below. Red, aching fingers place the shaking porcelain onto wood, where it sears a ring into the surface. The tea, expensive, evaporates into nothing within seconds, leaving only the remains of the leaves, settled at the bottom.

It is a sign, and this Ten knows. 

He peers cautiously into his cup. 

_I choose him_

Ten stares at the message, hands outstretched and calling the magic.

“What does this mean?” he asks, voice and hands shaking.

Magic buzzes in the air around him, vibrates against his skin. It is everywhere and in everything, but, for once, it does not respond.

\------

Chittaphon is six years old and already a talented gardener. Blessed by the Gods, his family claim. So young, filled with potential, the family pride. 

He knows how to care for the plants because they _speak_ to him. He understands the complexities of farming because he has the greatest of teachers, its voice gentle, just a whisper in the wind. 

When he speaks of the voice, makes flowers bloom within his palms; his parents begin to understand. 

Not a prodigy of agriculture, but of something so much greater. Chittaphon is a _vessel_. The first of the family, the first of the village. The revelation is met with excitement, pride, awe. His parents are congratulated by their neighbours, those from surrounding towns travel just to catch a glimpse of him, the new vessel, the child chosen by magic. 

It causes a stir, but the commotion is incomparable to the arrival of Johnny. His first appearance in the village heralded by Chittaphon who inexplicably, knows of his name and the time he is to appear.

Nothing marks the significance of the man, nothing except Chittaphon’s intuition, something now regarded as law.

Johnny is a man taller than Chittaphon has ever known, dressed so strangely and with skin covered in dark, black runes. Chittaphon feels a familiar presence within him, something so similar to the wind that whispers in his ears.

“Hello, little one,” he says, holding a hand out in greeting. “I have been told to call you _Ten_.” 

The name feels right in ways that Chittaphon never did, his skin buzzing as the title is bestowed upon him.

“He has been chosen,” Johnny informs the growing crowd. “And for that, he must come with me.”

Johnny, also one of the chosen, will guide Chittaphon-- no, he will guide _Ten_ \-- as he is transformed into a vessel of magic. There is no place for him in the village, nor with his family. 

His future has been set, chosen, and it is with Johnny, wherever he may go.

“This will sting,” Johnny whispers, pressing his fingertips into Ten’s wrist. “And my child, I am so sorry.” 

Flesh sizzles and burns, blackens and scars beneath Johnny’s grip. Ten cries out in pain, overwhelmed by the emotions flowing through him. Where there was once a barrier between him and the voices in the wind, there is nothing. 

And Ten, at barely seven years old, sees magic in its entirety; the pure darkness, yet the overload of colour dancing beneath his eyelids. He sees eternity, and all that will ever be. 

He comes to, sobbing in Johnny’s arms, as the wound on his wrist begins to heal. 

“There, there, my little one,” he coos, brushing his hands through Ten’s hair. “It’s all over now.” 

The rune on his wrist, now that he has seen magic, is one he knows is a brand. A sign of dedication, a life devoted to his new master. He will learn, and Johnny will teach him, the magic guiding their progress as it sees fit. 

“We have to leave,” Johnny says. He crouches, offers his back for Ten to climb onto. “There is nothing for you here.” 

Ten nods in understanding. 

As Johnny carries him out of town, out of the life he has known, a voice on the wind tells him to never look back. 

Tears fall as he complies, eyes set firmly on the road ahead.

\------

Kunhang’s family aren’t likely to give up their child in the name of magic, especially not to a _witch_ who murders for what others perceive to be fun. Therein lies the problem, and it is one that the magic refuses to listen to.

Kunhang has been chosen, he must learn and Ten must be the one to teach him. There is no argument with magic; it wills what it wills, and even Ten is helpless to stop it. 

_Do not fret, my child. It is not yet the time._

The magic, imparting knowledge via the rose bush Ten currently prunes, does nothing to ease his worry. 

_I have not yet told you his name._

It has one for Kunhang, then, just chooses not to reveal it. The magic waits for the perfect moment, one that will change Kunhang’s life forever.

“Will we have to move?” Ten sighs, knowing that arguing with magic is nothing but futile. “I like it here, and if I am not mistaken, so do you.” 

_I have grown fond of this city._

This time, it is the marigolds who whisper. 

_Your place is here, and so is the boy’s._

Ten is terrified. Inexplicably, overwhelmingly. It is one thing to take on an apprentice, to teach him the ways of magic. It is another thing entirely to take a boy and force him to do what Ten does. 

There are such things that children should not be privy to, and Ten’s work is something that even adults should know better than to engage with. 

He is the bringer of death and despair, channels the greed of mortals and delights in their downfall. The magic may trust Ten to teach, but it cannot possibly trust him to be a good man. 

_My child, how wrong you are._

Vines curl around his wrists, slide between his fingers. The flowers sway and chatter, unfurled buds blooming just for him.

_You are the best man I have ever known._

\------

Poison is such a tricky thing to make. The recipe Ten uses is from a book, aged and falling apart, written entirely in Johnny’s messy scrawl. It dates back to a time where Ten could not write, and so his Master acted as his scribe.

Hundreds of years and Ten still finds difficulty in reading his writing. Some things will never change and Ten supposes that he is just one of the few unchanging forces upon the world. 

The brew he works on is meant for only one. A nobleman’s outlandish plot to marry into royalty hinges solely on Ten and his concoctions. A poisoned wine for the prince, a love potion for his grieving widow. 

The greed of his customer will consume him, and Ten waits in glee, wondering how it will all play out. He has heard rumours that the woman in question has what the masses call _unfavourable tendencies_. He embeds in his potions the purest wish that she may elope with her handmaiden one of these days. 

Or, at the very least, for crippling impotence to overcome her future husband.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing for nine-year-olds to know about.”

“I’m _ten_ , now, thanks for asking.”

Kunhang has started to visit Ten without knocking, often barging in on his work, sitting on the table without removing his hat. He drinks quite a vast amount of Ten’s tea collection and often requests scones or shortbread to accompany it. 

Ten rolls his eyes each time but allows it, before rubbing salve and whispering words of healing onto his fresh cuts and bruises. Kunhang never tells how they come to appear on his body and Ten never asks. 

Though, he is sure, that Kunhang wouldn’t reveal the truth, even if he did. 

His fingers, knobbly and crooked, have caused Ten confusion for some time. He often holds them, willing the magic to heal whatever damage has been done. As a future witch, magician, user of the magic, Kunhang will need his hands. And that is what Ten tells himself as his fingertips buzz and he begs the magic to heal.

It is not compassion that drives him, because compassion is a trait he has long since abandoned.

Healing is a slow process, one Ten knows to be painful. With each visit, Kunhang’s fingers look a little straighter, a little less forced out of place. It comes with the knowledge that his nights must be spent in agony as the bones rearrange themselves. 

Magic extends its hand to the chosen, but it is never kind enough to remove the pain of being touched.

Kunhang always arrives at the same time, leaves at the same time. He follows a procedure of greeting the plants first before eating Ten out of house and home. He often wonders if Kunhang’s parents even feed him. 

Or if he is fed at the school from which he is obviously missing. It does not go unnoticed that Kunhang’s visits align with school hours, times that should be spent learning and not visiting strange witches up the road. 

The education of mortals is not something he is exempt from; Kunhang must read ingredients, make calculations, recognise the goings on of the stars and moon. He needs to know the properties of plants, stones and crystals; of the elements of science and their place within the magic. 

It is what Ten has been taught, and it will be what he teaches. 

But how much knowledge he has to impart remains just another one of the magic’s mysteries. 

\------

“Kunhang,” Ten calls, stirring his potion intently. Another act of cruelty. The police force has solicited, under the table, for Ten’s assistance. Something to torture the mind of criminals who do not willingly speak. “Do you mind reading me the next step in the instructions? I can’t leave my cauldron.”

“I would,” Kunhang swings his legs back and forth as they dangle off the edge of his table. The movement rocks the cauldron, ever so slightly. “But I’ve never learnt how.” 

With a muttered incantation, Ten’s trusty spoon takes over. So long as the stirring remains constant, the procedure remains stagnant and Ten has time to fish his book holder from one of the house’s back rooms. 

“Then you will learn,” Ten takes a seat at the table, swatting at Kunhang’s kicking legs. “Don’t your parents send you to school?”

“No, sir,” Kunhang says, as if the knowledge were common. “And I don’t have parents, either.” 

“The adults I see you with?” 

“Auntie,” Kunhang sips at his tea, now taken with only two sugar cubes at Ten’s request. “And Uncle, of course.” 

“But your parents---”

“Are dead, sir,” Kunhang cuts him off. “In their sleep, both of them. Right after I was born.” 

A terrible coincidence, yet something unbearably familiar. It reeks of magic, but Ten cannot recall ever dealing with a couple expecting a child. He can barely recall anyone he has worked with, especially those who have commissioned his help over a decade ago. 

“If you don’t go to school, then how do you spend your days, young master Kunhang?” The kicking of his legs starts up again and Ten grabs a hold of an offending ankle in an attempt to keep the child still.

“I dunno,” one ankle restrained, one still swinging freely, jostling the table. Ten sighs. “With you, with the plants, helping around the house.” Kunhang shrugs. “I do what I want, most of the time.” 

“And why is that?” 

Kunhang doesn’t answer, but he rubs at the newly straightened form of his fingers. 

“Would you like to learn?” Ten prompts, gently. He has a feeling that the magic has prerequisites for acceptance. Ten knows plants, has done so all his life. But Kunhang knows nothing except chores and climbing fences. He must learn before he is properly taught, and Ten’s Mastership must begin sooner than expected. 

“Please,” Kunhang picks the dirt from under his fingernails. “I think I’d like that.” 

Ten has a plan he must set into action. 

But first, it is time he made a house call.

\------

It is a common belief that Ten cares little for anyone other than himself. While mostly true, he has a rather hidden soft spot for the city’s most popular tailor and his unruly gang of apprentices. 

The bell over the door jingles, signalling his arrival. Three heads pop up from behind the counter; boys around Kunhang’s age peering over the tabletop. 

“Hello, Mister Ten,” they greet in unison. Yukhei, Dejun and Yangyang. Street kids and orphans taken in by the tailor, yet their fine clothes have done little to mask their wild charm. 

Cheeky and talkative, they babble on about their master and the skills they have learnt. 

“I sewed a seam the other day,” says Dejun, proudly. 

“Yeah, well, I did a whole line of buttonholes!” Yukhei fires back. 

“I’m still not allowed near scissors,” Yangyang sighs dejectedly, before visibly brightening. “But Mister Kun says I’ll be able to, any day now!” 

“Well done, boys,” Ten coos, “you’ll be making my cloaks before you know it.” 

“Sir,” Yangyang says, as seriously as a nine-year-old is able to. “It would be an honour.” 

“Hey!” 

Two new faces appear at the top of the staircase, summoned by the commotion. The final two members of the misfit family, Chenle and Renjun, clamour down the stairs in order to greet him. 

“Do the thing!” Chenle begins to chant. The other boys join in, one by one, until their chorus is nothing but jumbled words clouding the air. 

Ten sighs, throws his hands into the air. Petals unfurl from nothingness, raining down on the boy’s heads as they cheer. Pinks, purples, reds and whites; the petals curl back into the void of non-existence before reaching the floor. 

“Make a mess and you clean it up.” 

There is but a single person in the city who can get away with talking to Ten without formality. 

Two, technically, but the second is too polite to do so. 

“When have I _ever_ , Sicheng?” Ten says in mock offence. 

“Your entire life is a mess,” he replies. 

“Come now, darling,” Kun, the owner of the store, joins in the commotion. “That’s no way to treat a paying customer.” 

“He doesn’t pay,” Sicheng deadpans. 

“He has already paid enough,” Kun smiles at him, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening even further. “Haven’t you, old friend?”

Kun is the only mortal in Ten’s recent memory that has reaped the benefits of magic, rather than being scorned by it. Purely, because he didn’t ask. The success of his business, the townspeople’s nonchalance at his relationship with Sicheng, it is all because of magic. 

Payment, Ten says, for a cloak mended free of charge almost twenty years prior. After rejecting something far more valuable, Ten has taken it upon himself to make sure that Kun’s life is free from all troubles---

“Yangyang, put those _down_!”

\--- except for those he willingly brings upon himself. 

Kun rejects the greatest gift of all: a sip from an immortality potion, graciously brewed by Ten. The magic rewards his lack of selfishness by giving Kun a long, healthy and successful life. All at Ten’s request. 

“You’re getting old,” Ten says, rubbing a thumb over Kun’s crow’s feet. 

“And you haven’t aged a day.” 

Ten sniffs, affronted. “I’d hope not.”

“You look younger than the children,” Sicheng says, wrangling Chenle under one arm and Dejun under the other. 

“Is that a grey hair I see?” Ten offers in response. He likes Sicheng, he truly does. If he didn’t, then his happiness wouldn’t be so closely linked to Kun’s. Ten would not allow it, nor would the magic. 

“What do you want, witch?” The word, so often spat, is filled with nothing but endearment when it falls from Sicheng’s lips.

“Books,” Ten says, quite seriously. His original plan was to have Kunhang join in with the boy’s daily lessons at the shop, but the magic disagreed quite violently. One of his snapdragons nearly bit through to the bone as he had the thought, a wound on his finger that has yet to heal. “From when the boys were younger.” 

While brimming with intelligence, Kunhang must start his education from the beginning. Which means books aimed at younger students, ones he will breeze through once he gets the hang of learning. 

“Oh my, whatever for?” Kun frowns, Yukhei shrieks, Sicheng sighs and tries to figure out how to contain three boys with only two limbs. 

Suddenly, Ten is thankful that his pupil is a little more well behaved. 

“I have run into a small problem,” Ten replies, simply. 

Kun sighs, and motions him into the kitchen for tea. 

Ten has much to explain.

\------

Kunhang’s eyes widen at the sight of his new learning materials. New and old, ones taken from Kun and Sicheng’s teaching equipment and others sourced elsewhere by the couple. 

They have been an immense help, for Ten cannot simply purchase children’s books without arousing suspicion. But for the local tailor, his ambiguous “business” partner and their ever-growing collection of children to teach? The gossip mongers of the town barely bat an eyelid. 

Ten suspects that the child wishes to dive into the pile both metaphorically and literally. But they have business to attend to, first. 

Namely, the new split to Kunhang’s lip and the bruises around his wrists. 

At almost eleven years old, he has still yet to discuss the cause of his injuries. Ten has still yet to ask. But it is their daily ritual, where they sit in silence, listening to the whispers of the wind, and Ten asks the magic to find a more permanent solution to Kunhang’s problems.

“Come here, child,” Ten says, voice soft. Kunhang limps towards him, and Ten finally notices the swelling of his ankle, the bruising of his knee, the scrapes and splinters in his palms. 

The child has taken quite the nasty fall, most likely down a set of stairs. Instead of taking his usual place in front of Ten, he instead crawls into his lap. 

“Is this okay, Sir?” 

He is far too big and entirely too injured to entertain the position. Ten, himself is shocked at the affection. He has not held anyone, in such a way, much less a child, in so very long. 

“Of course it is,” Ten smooths the hair from Kunhang’s forehead, presses a kiss to the crown of his head. He summons magic to blackened fingertips, lays a gentle hand on the wounds. 

Kunhang cries out in pain, clutches onto Ten’s robes with broken fingernails and weeps into his neck. 

It must be unbearable.

Ten, distressed and unable to help apart from asking the magic to heal him faster, suddenly recalls a melody; one he has not heard in hundreds of years. It is in his mother tongue, a song lost to time, one that his mother used to hum to him when it was time to sleep. 

Through the burning in his hands and Kunhang’s pained sobs; he sings. 

It is all he can possibly do.

\------

As Ten expects, Kunhang learns quickly. Once literate he consumes knowledge with an indescribable hunger. He catches up with Kun and Sicheng’s boys in a matter of months, meaning Ten can return the books taking up space on his bookshelf. 

He moves on to other, more necessary education; magically inclined knowledge built upon the foundation of mortal teaching.

It is far more difficult, and although Kunhang learns quickly, it still takes some time. 

Eleven becomes twelve and Kunhang begins to learn Latin. It is not Ten’s mother tongue, but it was taught to him by Johnny all those years ago. Most of his books, passed down from Master to student, are in the language. So Kunhang must become entirely fluent for his studies to properly continue. 

It breeds a certain feeling of nostalgia in Ten, often found reminiscing about the times of old while speaking a language already dead to the world. 

Familiarity and routine become commonplace. He spends his mornings working in wickedness, prepares lunch and waters the flowers. He teaches Kunhang in the afternoon, finishing up any odd brews and spells that require his attention. Once Kunhang bids his hasty farewell, Ten tends to his gardens and runs his errands. 

The boys at the shop are already on their way to becoming fine tailors, their talents allowing Kun to maximise both output and profit. The magic within Ten buzzes happily at the news. If there is one human it loves as much as its chosen few, it is Qian Kun. 

Perhaps, in another life, eighteen-year-old Kun would have become Ten’s apprentice on their fateful day of meeting. 

It is clear, now, that everything in Ten’s life has been leading up to Kunhang. Magic even interfering with the lives of his parents to ensure his abode just up the street. 

Kun’s success, his adoption of children, the books he uses to teach them. The magic has been using him to make Kunhang’s transition from mortal to vessel that small amount smoother. 

Magic, which is everywhere and everything, who knows and is all, has orchestrated every aspect of both Ten and Kunhang’s lives. 

Twelve becomes thirteen, with Kunhang adept in most areas of magic without even knowing it. A late bloomer by circumstance only, his unity with magic will surely come before Ten knows it. He wonders, frets, worries himself sick over the impending transformation. 

Because his aunt and uncle will not let go without a fight. They are amongst those who sneer at Ten on sight, has come to recognise their faces in the fearful crowd. 

He remembers them, now: a selfish man with one of Ten’s love potions, who stole the true love of another. The magic has seemingly filled the two with hatred, both for themselves and for others. And if gossip is to be believed, it has struck a woman, so desperate for children, with infertility. 

How cruel magic truly is. 

At fourteen, Kunhang is fluent in Latin, can tell which brew Ten makes by scent alone, knows the flowers in the garden by name. His learning is stagnant, the only things left to teach require vesselship, so Kunhang spends his afternoons in Ten’s library, reading and researching everything he can. 

The child seems to _know_ , is instinctively drawn to tomes penned by Johnny, absorbs what he can without the mark on his wrist and the magic to buzz beneath his skin. 

As Kunhang’s age and knowledge grow, so do his injuries. Bones, more often broken than not. Eyes swollen shut and gashes that scar on damaged skin. Ten has his work cut out for him with each increasing injury. They become harder to heal, like the damage being done has the intent of remaining so. 

Kunhang, in his mid-teens, still crawls into Ten’s lap and cries as the magic reverses the damage. Ten still kisses his hair and sings to him in a broken voice, wishing he could share even a fraction of the pain.

Five years into his mentorship, and Ten still has not asked. 

But Kunhang is still reluctant to tell. 

It culminates one day, on the most mundane of Tuesday afternoons. Kunhang has lost a lot of his boyishness as he has aged, but his habit of sitting on the table and swinging his legs is still ever present.

His feet brush the ground every so often, jostling the table. Though he is more help than a hindrance, recipe book sat in his lap, where he reads instructions in bored-sounding Latin. 

Loud bangs to Ten’s front door, angry yelling as the vines surrounding his house ensnare the unwanted guest. A male voice from outside, angry and muffled. Ten feels the fear of the magic as it tries to restrain him, flinches in pain as his precious vines are torn. 

“I forgot,” Kunhang says, eyes wide and body still. “The sleeping pills, I forgot them.” 

“The _what_?” Ten yells, clutching his sides in pain. He is one with the magic and whoever is outside his door has damaged it. Such anger, he feels it. Ten has never been so afraid. 

“I slip sleeping pills into Auntie and Uncles lunch,” Kunhang says worriedly. The banging on the door is frantic, muffles the curses spewed by who Ten assumes to be Kunhang’s uncle. “Gets me out of the house for a few hours.” 

“You _fool_ ,” Ten seethes, the magic is furious and it flows through him. 

“You don’t know what they do to me!” Kunhang screams back. It’s the first argument they’ve ever had, the first tears Kunhang has shed in anything other than pain. But, Ten supposes, emotional pain is as severe as the physical damage left behind. 

Ten’s rage builds, the knowledge of what Kunhang’s family-- his _blood_ \--- have done to him, it’s blinding. He ceases to exist, darkness consuming him. Walls shaking, Ten can hear nothing, feels nothing but the overwhelming anger and the magic now searing across his skin. 

The magic speaks, screams, chants. A name, but it is not Ten’s own. It is the time, both the best and the worst. But Kunhang has been chosen. 

“You foul, filthy creature.” 

The front door gives, and through his tunnel vision, Ten comes face to face with Kunhang’s uncle. 

“What are you doing to my child?” His face red, hands bloody. Dying vines still hang from his shoulders. 

“He is not yours,” Ten feels himself say. He is not sure if they are his words or the voice of the magic. 

“He belongs to me.” 

“Uncle,” Kunhang begins, voice shaking. “Please.” 

“You poisoned me,” his words hold more venom when quiet than when yelled. It must be commonplace because Kunhang freezes, consumed by fear. “And you will not last through your punishment.”

He takes Kunhang by the wrist and Ten hisses. An unclean hand touches where his mark should burn into skin, it is now, it is the time for him to become--- 

The magic surges as Kunhang’s uncle fists a hand into the child’s hair, twisting painfully. Kunhang cries out, calls Ten’s name in panic, but there is nothing he can do. 

For some reason, the magic has taken control, made him immobile. He watches the scene from outside his body. 

There is nothing he can do but scream. 

_Hendery_

\------

Ten awakens to an ache that consumes him. Body and mind fatigued, he struggles to lift himself from the floor. 

_Forgive me, my child. I did what needed to be done._

“You’ve killed him,” Ten sobs, exhausted, “you heard the foul mortal, he will die and he will suffer.” 

_You care for him, good._

“Is this my punishment?” Ten collapses onto his back, arms unable to hold his weight. “For what I’ve done? Is this how you will punish me?” 

_He is your reward. Hendery will be born anew by your hands._

“I can’t reverse death,” Ten mutters, drags his nails weakly against the wooden floor. “You have not given me that power.” 

_It is not yours to have._

“Then what am I supposed to do?” Ten can feel himself crying and makes no effort to wipe the tears away. He lacks the strength, the conviction. Overwhelmed by grief he sobs, unmoving. 

_Rest, my child._

The magic consumes him, eyes drooping as it whispers to him. 

_Hendery will be home soon._

\------

Ten drifts in and out of consciousness for what seems as if timeless eternity. He observes the edge of the universe, traverses across stars. Johnny joins him for what feels like both the briefest of moments and yet entire millennia. 

“Look at you, a Master,” he says, laughs. He hasn’t aged a day. “You’re all grown up.” 

“I am nearly three hundred years old, Johnny,” Ten says softly. “I haven’t been a child in centuries.” 

 

“Three hundred, wow,” he whistles. “Yet, I’ve still got another five hundred on you.” 

“Why are you here?” Ten side steps a shooting star as it flies by. The road he walks through the cosmos is paved by magic. 

“It said you needed guidance,” Johnny shrugs, “so here I am.” He falls into step beside Ten, admiring the constellations as he goes. “Make it quick, though. My new student is either having a panic attack or flirting with the Blacksmith’s son, and neither of those are good things.” 

“You have a new student?” Ten is surprised. He’s always thought that the magic only deals once; one student, one Master. 

Johnny hums in affirmation. “He’s nearly seventy but he acts like he’s eighteen,” he smiles fondly in memory, then frowns. “But I’m not here to talk to you about that, am I?” 

“My student is dead.” 

“Before you could give him the potion?” 

“He’s only fourteen.” 

Johnny makes a noise of understanding. It’s always been his way of communication; hums and noises and laughs where words should often be. 

The Eternity Elixir is something passed on from Master to student. Magic’s final blessing, eternal life in its servitude. Ten drank his at age twenty-five, pocketed the recipe and left Johnny’s care. 

They haven’t seen each other since. 

“He’s not dead, you know,” Johnny says, crouching onto the ground. Just like old times, he intends to carry Ten back home. 

“How?” 

Feeling like a child once more, Ten buries his face into his Master’s neck. 

“How what?” 

“How do you know?” 

“A little more faith in magic, please,” Johnny pats at Ten’s thigh. “I thought I taught you better than this.” 

“You did,” Ten mumbles, forehead resting against Johnny’s shoulder. The magic knows exactly how to comfort him, even when Ten himself isn’t aware. Seeing Johnny helps to heal his wounds, restore his faith. 

He is ready to return. 

They walk, Ten on Johnny’s shoulders, the only two souls in the universe. Light bleeds into darkness as the stars begin to rush by, a blur of glowing momentum. Brightness, overwhelming, so white it shines with every colour, welcomes Ten back home. 

And when he awakens, gasping against wood, it is to furious knocking on his front door.

\------

Bruised with a wry, bloody smile, belongings in hand. He looks worse for wear but so very alive. Ten chokes back a sob. 

“Hen-- _Kunhang_ ,” he corrects himself, drags the child into his arms. 

“It’s okay, Master, the magic has told me everything,” he whispers, hands shaking. “My name is Hendery, and you may call me that.” 

“When did you grow up?” Ten wipes his tears with the hem of his robe. 

“When I did what had to be done.” 

His aunt and uncle would not have let him go, not so easy. His wounds, though deep and serious, are not to the extent that Ten has come to expect. 

“They’re dead, Master.” 

And suddenly, Ten understands. They would not let him go in any other circumstance. Hendery belongs to the magic, now, and it has taken what rightfully belongs to it. 

“I’ve been watching you for years, I am so sorry,” Hendery steps foot into Ten’s home, their home. “I made a poison flavoured like whiskey, and poured it into their nightcap.” He stops, his gaze hard, eyes glazed as he speaks. “They died screaming.” 

“You---”

“I’m sorry,” Hendery, now unable to help his tears, collapses to the floor. Ten rushes him, pulling the boy to his chest and petting his hair. Hands tangle in bloodsoaked strands and Hendery muffles his sobs into the fabric of Ten’s cloak. “I’m so sorry, but I needed to get out.” 

“I understand.” 

What he did was extraordinarily dangerous. To practice magic without forming the bond, becoming a vessel; it could have killed him. But the magic seems intent on keeping Hendery around, his fate tied to Ten’s for reasons only it knows.

“The magic said it was okay,” his sobs and breathing begin to calm, though he remains clung to Ten, fingers clutched in the velvet cloak, grounding him. “It said it wanted them dead.” 

“I would have killed them myself,” Ten replies softly. “But it was your fate to do so.” 

“The magic, those whispers, it’s what they said, too.” Hendery lifts his gaze. “Is it always that noisy inside your head?” 

“You get used to it,” Ten forces a wry smile. 

The problem of the bond still remains. Hendery is injured, requires healing. The bond will accomplish this, but not before he is put through excruciating pain. Ten must decide if he should prolong Hendery’s pain for an easier bonding, or put him through hell for heaven’s sake. 

“I’m ready,” he says, quietly. It has been so long since Ten has been around another vessel, that he has forgotten how easily the magic shares things between them. It whispers his thoughts in Hendery’s ear, as the decision is not Ten’s to make. 

“It’s going to hurt, more than anything you’ve ever felt before,” Ten warns him, rubbing a soothing hand down the length of his spine. “You need to be prepared.” 

“Nothing can hurt more than I do now,” Hendery takes a long, shuddering breath. “I will survive this, and then I will continue to do so.” 

“My brave child,” whispers Ten, echoes the magic. “I swear that this is the first and last time I will _ever_ willingly hurt you.” 

“Promise me, please,” he grips Ten tighter, rests his head on his shoulder. “Swear on something important.” 

“I swear--” 

“I’m here, with you. I killed them to be with _you,_ ” Hendery grits his teeth before continuing. “I cannot hurt again, Master. So, please, swear on the thing that means the most to you.” 

Ten could swear on his own Master, on the magic that owns them both. But somehow, it feels as if the answer is wrong. It is a test, unorthodox, where the student quizzes the Master. 

There is only one thing he can say, truthfully and with all honesty. 

“I swear on your life, you will never hurt again.” 

Hendery sobs into Ten’s neck. Slowly, carefully, he offers his arm. 

Ten hesitates. The magic swirls around them. 

He presses two fingertips against Hendery’s wrist.

\------

Hendery is the same both before and after the bond. While his screams still echo in Ten’s ears, he seems to recover quickly, bouncing back with youthful enthusiasm. He still has wounds to heal, emotional scar tissue that magic cannot and will not fix. 

Matters of the mind are for men to overcome, and Hendery treats each day as a new adventure. 

It is September. 

Fifteen approaches rapidly. 

The first order of business is to introduce Hendery back into the public light. The city has heard the news of his family’s passing. Old news within days, their early demise written off as an unfortunate coincidence. The townspeople are more interested in the location of the child, as he has vanished without a trace. It is not the deaths, but the disappearance that has the town talking. 

When one is to make a grand appearance, then Kun’s shop is the first order of business. Disguised by one of Ten’s cloaks, enchanted with a spell of forgetfulness for those who dare glance his way, they weave through the streets unbothered. 

The shop is closed upon arrival, courtesy for Ten whenever he is to visit; Kun and Sicheng’s other clients are amongst those who _gossip_ , and Ten’s nature when with the children is not something that should be public knowledge. 

He is the harbinger of death, after all. The man whose curses destroy bloodlines. If anyone were to know that he makes petals rain and transforms scrap fabric into tiny cotton animals, it would positively _ruin_ him. 

“Ten, sir, you’re looking stunning as always.” Yukhei has grown into quite the flirt, greeting each customer with overbearing flattery. Ten is not exempt from, not immune to his charms. Yukhei is one of his favourites, and he has asked the magic to bless him accordingly. “Though I must say,” he continues, “your new friend is much more my type.” 

“Calm yourself, you absolute _dog_ ,” Dejun mumbles as he embroiders, seated on the floor in front of the main counter. Ten does not miss the flicker of interest in his eyes as he spots Hendery, however. 

Teenagers. They are all the same. 

“Where are the others?” 

“Yangyang is cutting patterns in the back, the others have lessons,” Dejun supplies. “First Father is teaching the munchkins and Second Father is ensuring that no eyes are damaged in the patternmaking process.” 

“Since when did your mouth get so smart?” Ten can’t help his laughter. Hendery, silent beside him, lets out an accompanying chuckle.

“Since I was raised by Dong Sicheng.” Dejun positively _smirks_ , ego stroked by the reaction from Ten’s companion.

“Fetch them for me?” Ten gestures to Yukhei. “Your fathers, please. One or both.” 

“I should introduce your friend to the others,” Dejun says slyly. “We lost boys should stick together, isn’t that right, Kunhang?” 

Of course, Dejun has put together the pieces of the puzzle. The missing boy named Kunhang, the mysterious witch arriving with a child of his own. Ten finds himself impressed with his intellect. 

“Call me Hendery,” his chest puffs slightly with pride. “That is what the magic has chosen for me.” 

“And it has chosen well,” Dejun offers his arm for Hendery to take. “We’ll leave the olds and the ancients to it, eh?” 

Hendery positively giggles as he takes the arm of his new friend. It’s unlikely he’s had anyone other than Ten over the years, has not known the type of affection that Dejun and his brothers offer so freely. It will be good for him to have friends his own age and with similar backgrounds, the lost who are found, the broken who are healed. 

Ten makes a mental note to propose joint lessons for the group of them. 

“Why does trouble seem to follow you, witch?” Sicheng appears, holding a pair of sharp-looking scissors. 

“It is in my nature,” he bows, almost mockingly. “I should ask the same of your hair, and why it is looking so grey these days.” 

“Kun thinks I look handsome,” Sicheng huffs. 

“Kun would find you handsome even if he were blind.” 

“You’re not far off the mark,” Kun descends the staircase, a little slower than normal. A sign of age that causes Ten the most unbearable of pains to witness. “And you may be right about the blindness.” 

A pair of wire frames sit across the bridge of his nose, a new addition to his appearance. 

“The perils of ageing,” Ten sighs, “glad they are not mine to experience.” 

“Are you here for a reason or do you just wish to revel in your immortality?” Sicheng places his scissors on the counter, hears a noise from the back room and promptly picks them up again. 

“Both,” Ten replies, honestly. “But mostly the former. I need a new wardrobe for Hendery.” 

“The missing child that my sons are now inexplicably attached to?” Kun raises an eyebrow. 

“The very same,” Ten confirms. “He is my student. He has completed the bond.”

Ten has explained, in great length and detail, the complicated nature of magic. They understand, somewhat, or as well as mortals are capable of. Both Kun and Sicheng know what a bond entails and the significance of the mark on Hendery’s wrist. 

“Will he have input or will he be dressed like his Master?” Sicheng is already fiddling with his tailor’s chalk, ready to work. 

“Something modern, please,” Ten laughs, “I am old and set in my ways, but he is a child of the new era.” 

“Renjun has an eye for design, we may let him take control of this project,” Kun hums, thoughtfully. “And Denjun has picked up embroidery with surprising ease.” 

“Let the boys make it,” Ten approves, “I think it would be far more meaningful to him that way.” 

“This will either be chaos or something incredibly beautiful,” Kun sighs. He removes his glasses, rubs at the bridge of his nose. 

“I think that sums up our Hendery quite nicely, don’t you think?” Sicheng smiles.

Ten is inclined to agree with him.

(Not that he would ever admit to it)

\------

Fifteen and Hendery makes his grand debut in the city. Dressed in velvet and intricate goldwork embroidery, his hair grown long. Girls on the street coo and giggle as he passes; long legs and mysterious aura, presented proudly at Ten’s side. 

Some of the more shameless men offer completely unsubtle glances of appreciation, and Hendery flushes from the attention, clinging tightly to the sleeve of Ten’s robe. 

“Head up,” he whispers. “They will fear you when they know what you’ve become. You must give them a reason to.” 

Hendery’s chin lifts, removes his grip from Ten’s arm. He runs a hand through his wild hair, the sleeve of his jacket shifting ever so slightly, the mark of his bond on display. 

A gasp, rippled murmurs through the crowd. 

There is a new witch in town.

The ocean of people parts accordingly.

\------

The first lesson of the bonded is the most difficult of them all. It requires a grasp on mortality, the delicate balance between life and death. Most importantly, it is a way for the bonded to learn that magic is present within it all. 

“I need you to find me a pocket watch,” Ten says as they step out to perform their daily errands. The vines unfurl, fixing Hendery’s hair as he follows after. “That is today’s lesson.” 

“Does it matter as to the owner, Master?” Hendery asks, curiously. He has so many questions, wishes to absorb all the knowledge that Ten has to offer. It is refreshing, and it reminds Ten of his younger self. 

“No, but you do need to at least know the person,” Ten points an accusing finger at Hendery’s nose. “No pickpocketing.” 

“Consider it done.”

Hendery’s confidence soars with each passing day. He begins moving through the crowds with an air of importance, one acknowledged by the people of the city. He is not immortal, not yet. He has much more training to complete before the magic will accept his brewing of the Eternal Elixir. 

But he has the mindset of someone who will not die, because he has seen it, has experienced it and will never again fear it. 

Ten’s chest swells with pride. He wonders, absentmindedly, if Johnny ever thinks of him in the same way. 

Their paths separate at the tailor’s; Ten has errands to run while Hendery has extra lessons to attend to with the other boys. He speaks so fondly of his Thursdays, of the things he’s learnt and the gifts he has received. 

His friends often practice their skills on new garments for him to wear. Before long, the shop is inundated with requests of recreations of the pieces, Hendery turning into somewhat of a fashion icon amongst the wealthy youth of the city. 

It starts such a strange phenomenon. Teenagers dressing like witches, drawing runes onto their skin as they appear on Hendery’s. Boys and girls alike in embroidered waistcoats, crystals dangling from their necks. 

Yet they still do not approach him, too in awe and still far too afraid. It is so lonely on a pedestal made by mortals, and Ten is eternally grateful for the tailor boys and their ability to ground him.

Though Ten is still concerned with their bond. It is a friendship that will last a lifetime, but only one. Hendery will go on to live many more, as is the nature of the chosen. Friendships will become harder to form as he ages, not in appearance but in soul. 

Kun and Sicheng are the first friends he will bury in over a century, and their passing draws closer with every day. It is not something he looks forward to, but looks past; there will always be more mortals. Though, Ten thinks, perhaps there will never again be anyone like Kun and his found family.

\------

“Did you bring me a watch?” Ten asks.

Hendery hums his disinterested response, pulling an intricate gold timepiece from his pocket. Distractedly, he places it on the table in front of him, nose still buried in his spellbook. 

He must know the owner but not care too fondly for them, as he handles the watch with such a careless touch.

The true nature of the lesson will not be learnt until after the spell has been performed. 

Ten observes, instructs, listens intently and picks at Hendery’s pronunciation. Once he is satisfied, Hendery’s already blackening fingertips rest softly on the front cover of the watch. 

“Speak slowly and speak clearly,” Ten reminds him. 

The wind rustles as Hendery summons the magic to him, directs its power to his fingertips. His incantation is perfect, his intention well intended and for that, the magic rewards him. The steady ticking of the timepiece draws to a halt, the cogs inside turning until they, too, find their resting place. 

“Shall we have a look?” 

The face reads 4:23, second hand paused and motionless exactly on twelve. He has succeeded, and Ten is overwhelmed with pride. 

“I can tell you what this means, but you must promise not to tell your friend,” Ten says, inspecting the watch. “It is not for them to know.” 

“No need, Master,” Hendery says sheepishly. “Today we used my watch.” 

“Impossible,” Ten waves his hand in dismissal. “This spell dictates the exact time of the owner’s death, and you will never die.” 

Hendery falls silent. 

Ten stares in horror at the clock in his hands. 

“Impossible,” he repeats, softly. 

But magic never lies.

\------

It is common for Masters to mould their students in their image. Kun and Sicheng have been doing so for years, other trades and skills taught in a similar manner. 

Ten is not like other Masters.

He teaches Hendery to enchant, to grow, to heal. Flowers bloom from his fingertips, street mutts and stray cats seeking him out to tend to their wounds. While talented, it is not where his passions lie, and for that Ten is overwhelmingly disappointed. 

“I want to be like you, Master,” he says, just shy of seventeen. “Let me brew the next batch of potions.” 

“Hendery,” Ten says softly, though not without warning. They haven’t discussed his reasoning, Hendery does not know why Ten shies away from teaching him the ways of potions and poisons. 

The time will come, eventually, but Ten stalls, trying to keep the darker side of their profession away from Hendery’s innocence. 

“I can do it,” he pushes, pouts. “You know I can.” His hands clenched into fists. “I have done so before.”

They don’t often speak of Hendery’s family, what they did and how he escaped. His feelings on the matter have been kept close to his chest for many years, wounds still healing and Ten unwilling to reopen the scars. 

“I liked it, you know,” he continues, “I enjoy potion-making, and I’m good at it.” 

“I’m aware,” Ten sighs, “but it is not something I can ask of you.”

Hendery frowns, reaches across the table to take Ten’s hand in his. 

“It is not our fault when people die,” he reminds Ten. “It is the fault of those who wish to abuse the gift that magic has brought to them.” 

He recites what he has been taught. 

“You will still feel guilty.” 

“I will not.” 

Hendery’s only experience with death is that of his family, ones caused by his own hands. To have decided, so adamantly, that all mortals are cut from the same cloth, is cause for concern. 

“Not every mortal is like your Uncle, my child.” 

Hendery stiffens, pauses. “It was both of them,” he swallows thickly. “His anger was unfathomable, but so was her cruelty.”

He rubs, absentmindedly, at his fingers. Straight and long, healed by magic then blackened by the same force. His fingernails have started to take on the dark purple hue of the magic’s chosen. 

“She loathed my mother for having a child, she loathed me because she deserved better than another woman’s orphan,” he laughs wryly. “I was never good enough, because I wasn’t _hers_.” 

“It was not she who deserved better, but you.” 

“I know.”

“Rid yourself of hatred and fear, and then you may make potions,” Ten relents. 

He is nothing but a hypocrite, as his brews are laced with his own malcontent. But if Hendery is so insistent in following his path, in his footsteps, then he will walk the path without a heavy heart. 

“Fathers First and Second will be proud of me,” Hendery offers a small smile. “They’ve been encouraging me for the longest time.”

“ _Fathers_?” Ten cries in offence. “The tailors and their terrors are your family, but not me?” 

“Would you like me to call you Third Father?” he smirks, and the action is so reminiscent of Dejun. They’re close, and Ten knows this. Their actions and tics shared due to years of friendship. 

“Third Father--” Ten cuts himself off, shudders. “No, just my name will suffice.” 

“Good, _Chittaphon_ ,” Hendery snarks. And there is the influence of Yangyang in his personality. “Because you’re nothing like a father to me.” 

“Insolent child, is that an insult on your lips?” Ten spies the basket of scones on their table, enchants one with the barest flick of his pinky. 

The pastry flies at Hendery’s head, but he’s prepared; a flick of his wrist and it turns into a butterfly, fluttering through the room and settling on the potted plant on the windowsill. 

“You’ve improved,” Ten raises an eyebrow in challenge. 

“I learnt from the best,” Hendery shoots back, enchanting his own scone in retaliation. 

Ten pauses the momentum mid-air, plucks it from its stationary state. Summoning the bowl of cream, he begins to prepare his afternoon tea. 

“Don’t waste food,” he chides. 

“You started it,” Hendery retorts, “ _Third Father._ ”

Ten huffs, takes a bite from his scone. 

“Don’t call me that.” 

\------

Time passes curiously for those who do not feel its effects. Years feel like minutes, decades and centuries fall by the wayside. Ten reaches the age of three hundred, and is only informed of the occasion by Kun’s enthusiastic well wishes. 

He experiences every moment with distinct clarity, yet observes the passing of time in tunnel vision, ages flying past in seconds. 

Hendery falls into step beside him, growing, ageing, changing with time. 

He heals. 

And while scars remain; they are reminders, motivation. Hauntings of pains past that spark compassion, humility. One of his first brews is used to kill an innocent man, and Hendery weeps. He attends the funeral, stood in the back, enchanted so that he is not noticed. 

He whispers to the wind, mutterings of Latin, silent pleas to the magic drowned out by the heartwrenching cries of a widow in mourning. 

Hendery ages, body and soul, and Ten sees his life in a series of snapshots. 

He grows tall, long-limbed and graceful. His cheekbones sharpen and his hair, always worn long, falls into wide, inquisitive eyes. The magic imparts an almost androgynous beauty to him, enough to entice mortals out of their fear. The streets no longer part for him, but crowd and mob, trying to catch sight of the beautiful witch. 

Even the plants notice; vines caress his face as he arrives home, the chattering of flowers laced with compliments that have him flushing prettily. 

Lessons long since finished, the boys from the tailor shop fall over themselves to make his clothes, offer to carry his things, flush with pride if he accepts their offered arm. 

The city notices many years before Ten does. He finds their antics amusing, laughs off their lust. Hendery is still the young boy from the garden, one who cuddles up to Ten on their chaise lounge in front of the fire, nose buried in a book. 

It takes time for Ten to notice, the realisation sudden and overwhelming. Hendery hums along with the marigolds, smudge of dirt on his cheek. He laughs, hair shining with hints of blue in the sunlight.

“My child,” Ten says softly, but the words feel wrong on his tongue. “When did you become so beautiful?” 

Hendery flushes prettily under the praise, pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“Somehow,” he replies, stroking gently along orange petals. “It means so much more when you say it.”

Hendery is twenty-five. 

Ten wonders where the time has gone.

\------

Noticing the beauty of his student is not a one-time event. It becomes something constant, almost an obsession. Ethereal, flawless. Once it was Hendery, honoured to walk by Ten’s side. Now it is Ten that finds himself honoured to be seen with his student. 

Constantly on his mind is Hendery’s growing mortality. Physically, he is but a few years younger than Ten. But without the elixir, he will continue to age.

He will continue to die.

The watch he enchanted as a child still reads 4:23, something Ten frets over near constantly for several months. 

“Do you think he is ready?” he asks the magic, observing Hendery fondly as he works in the garden. 

_For an eternity with you?_

The wind whispers its response.

_He has been ready for years._

\------

Ingredients for the elixir take time to source and Ten begins his preparations almost immediately. In the meantime, he keeps a close eye on his student, in constant search of the opportune moment to broach the subject with him.

The magic assures Ten he is ready, and he trusts it. But he must ask Hendery, first, see if he is fully prepared to step foot into eternity. 

Hendery seems to have other plans. 

He is not the only young man to grow beautifully, the boys from the tailor’s shop also turning heads and amassing admirers of their own. Dejun, specifically, seems to have caught his student’s attention. 

They spend their free time in each other’s presence, arms linked and eyes only on each other. Hendery introduces his friend to the plants, conveys their chattered flirtings and heavy compliments. 

Ten sees them from the kitchen window, sat on the path as the plants giggle and coo around them, Dejun’s casual arm thrown around Hendery’s shoulder. 

He lets the curtains fall closed as Hendery takes Dejun’s chin between delicate fingers, and angles their faces close. He cannot bear to watch as his student loves someone he cannot have, someone he will lose. 

_Is that how you really feel?_

Magic speaks through the potted plant. 

“What are you implying?” 

_Truly, the boy is beautiful. I have noticed, and so have you._

Ten closes his eyes, inhales sharply. 

Muffled voices at the side of the house, a thump, a giggle. 

Ten grips the edge of the kitchen bench. 

Gaps in the curtains reveal glimpses of blackened fingers threaded through Dejun’s hair. 

A soft gasp, a moan. 

Ten exhales a shaky breath. 

_You’re jealous._

Magic mocks him, burns along his skin. It plants the idea in his head, projects him into Dejun’s position. 

In an instant is his _his_ lips on Hendery’s neck, _his_ leg between his thighs. His symphony, music made for his ears only. 

Ten is torn. 

He wants, so desperately. Craves Hendery’s lips, his touch. He has grown into such a beautiful, incredible man but the immorality lies in the fact that it is Ten that has raised him. 

“This is not right,” Ten mutters, claws at his face as Hendery moans, is hushed. “This is not how I feel.” 

Magic allows him the phantom sensation of Hendery’s skin under his palms. 

“Stop,” Ten begs. “Please, I cannot---”

_It is so pitiful, seeing you like this._

Ten closes his eyes and sobs.

\------

Hendery, who has spent his whole life learning, recognises the ingredients of his elixir immediately. Excited, overjoyed, he eagerly begins to prepare the recipe he has waited his whole life for.

Immortality is a two-part process: the brewed potion is consumed, followed immediately by the deadliest poison in the vessel’s repertoire. It demonstrates skill, devotion and trust-- the qualities so favoured by magic. 

If the request for eternity is approved, the poison will do no harm and the time between consumption and effect is the most terrifying part of a vessel’s life. 

Ten remembers his own attempt, the two minutes he spent clung to Johnny in fear, the disbelieving laugh and weight lifted from his shoulders as he lived through the ordeal. 

Hendery, such a talented young potion maker, completes the tasks asked of him without flaw. It is a stressful week filled with sleepless nights as Hendery stands over his cauldron, dutifully completing his brews. The whole process is mentally and physically exhausting, emotionally draining and Ten is powerless to do anything but massage at aching shoulders and offer a constant supply of tea. 

The final products-- the golden elixir, the dark purple of the poison-- sit in vials on their kitchen table. Something so extraordinary, so significant, placed so innocently on the surface of the wood. 

“Do you want anyone else with you?” Ten asks. He only had Johnny, because Ten has never really had anyone else. Hendery has a large group of people, an entire family, ready and willing to see him through eternity. 

“No,” Hendery shakes his head, smiling softly. “Just you. You’re all I need.” 

Ten’s chest tightens. 

“What about Dejun?” he asks, afraid of the answer. “I have seen the two of you in the gardens.” 

“Oh,” Hendery flushes, embarrassed and ashamed. “Forgive me, that was not for you to see.”

And it is a fact of which Ten is more than aware. Hendery’s sensuality is for eyes that are not his, his love and devotion not Ten’s to experience. 

“He is my best friend,” he continues, “our hearts belong to others, and what we do, it helps to ease the pain.” 

“You are in love?” Ten cannot help but ask. He is jealous, curious and overwhelmingly so. In the back of his mind, the magic snickers. 

“It is unrequited,” Hendery’s voice is small, it reminds Ten of the child he once knew. “But my heart belongs to him, and to no other.” 

“My child, my love.” 

Ten draws him into his arms as he has so many times before. “I am so very sorry.” 

“Somehow, it’s better,” Hendery mumbles against his neck. “Hearing it from you.” 

Allowing the embrace for a moment too long, Ten draws his hands down Hendery’s arms, linking their fingers together as his path ends. 

“Are you ready for eternity?” he asks.

“So long as it’s with you,” Hendery says, reaching for the elixir. 

He downs the vial in a single gulp and time stills. Magic has not yet shown itself, and despite the reassurance it has offered. Picky and petty, it may retract approval at any point in time. The final test is Hendery’s poison, the same type Ten himself drank so very long ago. 

His fingers shake as he uncaps the vial, eyes closing and pleas whispered to the wind. Hendery begs for the magic to accept him, pledges his eternal devotion. 

“ _Please_ ,” he whispers, words so silent that Ten can barely hear him. But the magic chooses its timing, links their minds and broadcasts Hendery’s words directly into Ten’s head. “Please, let me stay with him.” 

Eyes screwed tightly closed, he downs the poison in entirely, the remnants of the purple liquid clinging to the corner of his lips. 

He breathes heavily, clutching at his heart, muttered prayers on his tongue. 

Ten chances a glance at the clock, timing the moment that the poison to take effect. 

It is 4:22. 

His heart drops. 

He wants to take Hendery in his arms, hold him until it ends, pray that the magic accepts him for the second and final time. 

4:23

Hendery gasps, presses his fingers to the base of his throat. Through the gaps, Ten can see the darkening ink, the mark of the immortal clearly on display. 

“I did it!” He cheers, jumping up and down in glee. “Master, I did it!” 

“Of course you did, my love,” Ten extends his arms, the jumping boy immediately flying into his embrace, knocking them both off balance. 

Poison still clings to the edge of his lips. 

Ten loathes himself for the thought of kissing it off. 

\-----

The significance of 4:23 is not lost on Ten. 

The date of Hendery’s death.

While not literal, magic deals in mysteries and metaphors; the beginning of Hendery’s immortality has caused the death of something important, and Ten cannot help but assume that he is to blame. 

Magic has claimed him but Ten, ever on edge, cannot shake the feeling that something is wrong. That Hendery is not a reward but a punishment. 

Ten, who has taken lives and ruins others. The petty reaper who spends lives like currency. 

He has been given Hendery so that he can be taken away, will love him and not know love in return. Magic shows glimpses, taunts and teases but it will never deliver. 

This is Ten’s fate. 

And he has an eternity to live with it. 

\------

Immortality does not change Hendery, not immediately. He still cuddles to Ten’s side in the evening, on the chaise in front of the fire. He still wears those high collars he’s been so fond of, concealing marks from the mouths of others. 

He’s exactly the same for the time being, save for the ease in Ten’s worry when he’s late in returning home. Impervious to harm, he has nothing to fear on the streets. 

Although Ten’s fear remains with matters of the heart; Dejun is out of town, a trip with Sicheng to source new fabrics. But Hendery still slinks around, a cat in the night, behind his back. 

It is not Ten’s business to ask. 

And for the first time in over a decade, Hendery has secrets that he will not tell. 

“Well, _hello_ , beautiful.”

Such time has passed since Ten has experienced an astral projection, that the sight of the young boy floating in his sitting room has him shocked. Hendery flushes, as he often does at the attention of attractive young men. 

Though, if this stranger is capable of projection, he is far older than his youthful face appears. 

“Johnny told me that Ten was cute, but he said _nothing_ of the student.” 

The projection’s visage is faded, colour dulled. Even through the desaturation he is bright, however, wide eyes and fashionably cut hair; loud colours of his clothing to match his temperament. 

“You must be Johnny’s new pupil,” Ten sighs, “he teaches well but does not teach _boundaries_.” 

“Like I had shame, or morals before the bonding,” the projection shrugs, looping around the ceiling. “Magic calls me Haechan, but you can call me whatever you see fit.”

“Then your name is _brat_ and you will be referred to as such,” Ten resists the temptation to throw a book at Haechan’s projection, knowing full well that it would only pass right through him. “You are centuries too young to be flirting with me.” 

“Yet I have centuries on your lapdog?” Haechan raises an eyebrow. 

“How we act in the space of our own home does not concern you,” Hendery says, quite firmly. “Is there a reason you are dangling from the rafters or are you just fond of torment?” 

“Both,” Haechan begins to float upside down, arms crossed casually over his chest. “Johnny wishes for me to practice my projection, yet also wishes to request an audience with his beloved.” 

“Beloved?” Hendery shoots Ten a wounded look. 

“The man raised me,” he dismisses the thought with a flick of his wrist. “He is to me as I am to you.”

“That does not comfort me, Master,” Hendery replies, before addressing Haechan’s projected form. “When shall we expect the two of you?” 

“In a matter of minutes,” Haechan grins, “he has gained _some_ manners over the years.” 

“I’ll put the kettle on,” Ten sighs, pulling himself from the lounge. 

Haechan wiggles his fingers in farewell, the projection fading.

\------

Meeting Johnny in the flesh after so long has Ten filled with nostalgia. 

He is picked up, spun around, his cheeks peppered with kisses. He feels six years old again, and giggles accordingly. 

Haechan and Hendery stand in the kitchen, judging their Masters in ways that only the youth are able to. They share looks of mild embarrassment at the actions of their elders, rolling their eyes as men the age of centuries act like children. 

Johnny will never age in a physical sense, refuses to let his mind mature alongside it. He is a wanderer, an endless traveller and sometimes Ten does find himself missing their wonderful adventures. 

“The magic has an eye for the beautiful, I must say,” Johnny says, brushing Ten’s hair from his forehead. “It chose you, it chose Haechan and I will extend the compliment to your stunning student as well.” 

Johnny offers him a bright smile, one that is returned through gritted teeth. 

“Though as beautiful as you are, boy, I am here on official Master business.” 

“How disappointing,” Haechan huffs, before turning to Hendery. “Would you show me the city?” he asks, “we can leave the ancients to their boring conversations.”

Hendery nods, offers his arm to Haechan who links his own with glee. Johnny is right; magic has an eye for the most stunning of vessels. Dissimilar in looks though both completely ethereal, their appearance within the city will surely cause a commotion.

Ten, though having known Haechan for mere minutes, is aware that he will rather enjoy the attention. 

“What is this business you speak of?” Ten wiggles his fingers, instructs the tea to pour itself.

“The magic has sent me once more,” Johnny says softly, “I have been told that you require guidance?” 

“Am I such a terrible Master that you must be sent so frequently?” Ten muses aloud. The pot plant by his window stops to giggle. 

“My Master appeared more frequently, back when I had my first student,” Johnny assures him, takes a sip of his tea. 

“Was I not your first?” 

“Yoonoh was,” Johnny says softly. “And I feel as if that eases almost all of your worries.”

Yoonoh, one of the more ancient beings that Ten has met. The man Johnny still courts after a near millennium. Two immortals playing a game of cat and mouse through the ages, meeting ever so often to rekindle the flame. 

Ten, despite all his years by Johnny’s side, has only met the man once. 

“It eases some, though intensifies others,” Ten admits, “does he still travel with Mark?” 

“He does, and will, until my student is ready to leave my side,” Johnny shakes his head, fondly. “Young Mark is so very smitten with our darling Haechan, and I do believe that it is mutual.” He places his teacup back onto the table with unsettling force. “But I am not here to gossip, Chittaphon. I am here to guide.”

“You only call me that when you are angry,” Ten averts his gaze, watching through the window as his flowers dance in the garden. He pauses, then adds for old time’s sake: “Youngho.” 

“Magic gifts me but the most insolent of brats,” Johnny laughs. 

“Or perhaps that is your punishment?” 

“Is that what you think of Hendery?” 

The question he did not want to answer, asked so plainly and without preamble. 

“What more could he be?” Ten breaks, sees no other way for his situation to play out. He is not a _good_ man, and for that his suffering is to be eternal. It is a frequent thought, a constant one. It plagues his mind with every waking hour. 

“He could be yours,” Johnny places his hand over Ten’s, an attempt to comfort him. “And he would be, if you were to ask.” 

“He has his boys, as I had mine,” Ten is only aware of his tears when Johnny wipes one from his cheek. “Like Master, like student.”

“Has the magic not assured you of its blessings?” Johnny pushes, the pot plant begins to chatter in affirmation. “It does not deceive, if this were to be a punishment, it would have revelled in your misery.”

“I _raised_ him.”

“As I raised Yoonoh.” 

“I have caged him.” 

“You have freed him from a life of torment and the misery of death,” Johnny stands, pulls Ten into his arm. He feels safe in Johnny’s embrace, as he always does. “My love, what has the world done to you?” 

He presses small, fleeting kisses on Ten’s forehead, his cheeks, the corner of his mouth. Old comforts from their time together, platonic affection from an age ago. 

“He was certainly handsome, but I don’t see why we’re panicking---”

Hendery, hot on the heels of a wide-eyed Haechan, bursts through the door with impeccable timing. Still mid-embrace, something so incriminating, it has Hendery’s hands shaking and Ten stepping away, faster than he could ever imagine moving. 

“Boys---” he starts. 

“I care not for what you were doing,” Haechan says in a rush. “But I saw _Mark_ , which means his Master is not far off.” 

“Go,” Ten wipes the remainder of his tears with his robe. “Chase your love.” 

“You are my love,” Johnny says, pressing one last kiss to his forehead. “But Yoonoh, well, you know how it is.” 

Johnny bids a hasty farewell, takes Haechan by the wrist and flees into the city streets. 

“His love?” Hendery says, deadpan and void of emotion. “Do you love him, too?” 

“Now is not the time,” Ten replies, slinking towards the chaise and in search of a throw blanket. “But it _is_ the time to cuddle, as I still have many tears that I must pretend not to shed.” 

The lounge is too small for both of them, but they curl together across the cushions, Hendery’s arms around Ten’s waist and nose at the nape of his neck. 

“Unrequited love is such a terrible thing,” Hendery breathes, his lips brushing against skin. 

“Isn’t it just,” Ten replies, resting his hands over Hendery’s and playing with his fingers. 

\--------

Ten has the ability to shield himself using magic. He can create pockets of time wherein weather has no effect, rain cannot touch his skin. The magic gifts him with so many wonderful abilities, and Ten disregards them for the aesthetic of an umbrella. 

It is an almost unspoken agreement that the turning of weather allows for a momentary truce between the classes; those with the privilege of protection huddle together to extend the range of their umbrellas. Those without trail along behind them, stealing brief moments of welcome reprieve from the weather. 

The only time that mortals dare brush shoulders with Ten is when they’re seeking shelter. He pretends not to notice, rationalising that one sheltered townsperson is one less person to heal when sickness undoubtedly begins to spread.

Swirling masses and unrelenting crowds offer an array of problems, all of which culminate as a foot, clumsy and unthinking, catches in the hem of Ten’s favourite robe. Already lined with mud and filth, the resulting tear has Ten biting back his anger as his treasured garment reaches a state of near ruin.

The spell surrounding him breaks--- not one caused by his own hands, nor the will of magic, but by the chosen ignorance of the mortal crowd. They pretend he is not there for the sake of their own convenience. But someone has angered the witch, and it is not their place to interfere. 

Scattering like the rats they are, the crowd forces themselves away from the spectacle. Ten stops in his tracks, turns with a flick of his ruined cloak to face the culprit of his misfortune. 

It is but a boy. Wide-eyed, not in terror, but in _remorse_. Ten has seen him in the crowd before, arms laden with bolts of fabric, tripping as he follows an elderly tailor on his daily errands. It has been some months since he last saw them, whispers of gossip reaching his ears and notifying Ten of the old man’s passing. 

“I’m sorry,” the boy says. His head is bowed, respectful and remorseful. “That is such a beautiful cloak.” 

“Yet now it is ruined,” Ten reminds him. It is not the boy’s fault, not entirely. Ten is just overwhelmed by the proximity of mortals, something he is not fond of nor familiar with. 

“If it’s any consolation, I’m probably the best person to have ruined it,” the boy’s head is still bowed, though he seems to be inspecting the damage rather than repenting it. “Because I am also able to fix it.” 

His head raises, the boy offering Ten a wide smile. “Come to my shop, I’ll prepare some tea and I’ll have it mended in no time.” 

For the first time since receiving his mark, Ten is thrown off guard by the actions of a mortal. The boy should be begging for his life, knees sinking into the mud as Ten walks away with no promises. 

“Do you not fear me?” Ten peers at him closely, moves into his personal space. He positions them chest to chest, an intimidation tactic, one that does not work. 

“You have always fascinated me.”

The boy doesn’t break eye contact, stands his ground. Ten finds that the fascination is mutual; he has not been treated as a mortal since he was one, no soul daring to think of him as an equal. 

“If your selection of teas does not meet my standards, I will not be held accountable,” Ten huffs, taking a moment to observe the tailor boy in his entirety. 

_I don’t have a name for this one, but the mortals call him Kun._

The magic whispers, surrounds the moment, immortalises it in Ten’s mind. 

_He is not mine, but I like him._

Kun takes Ten by the hand and navigates him through cobblestone streets. He fixes Ten’s tea and repairs the damaged cloak with skilled hands, delighting his guest with anecdotes and stunning, yet incomplete designs.

Ten returns home with a budding friendship and a promise of patronage to the small tailor shop. He gains, most importantly, a new standard of man. 

He decides, as he runs his fingers along the impeccably mended seam, that there are mortals and there are men like Qian Kun. 

No one else can possibly compare.

\------

“Our house is so empty nowadays,” Kun sighs, placing Ten’s cup of tea in front of him. Years of friendship has given him insight into Ten’s perfect brew, a talent that not even Hendery possesses. “The boys are gone and I do quite miss their chaos.”

“There are other boys just like them,” Ten points out. He blows the steam from his cup before taking a sip. “The streets are lined with lost children who would love a home.” 

“I’m old, Ten,” Kun sighs. He eases himself into his chair, joints old and aching. “I cannot keep up with children, not anymore.” 

“You’re thinking of retirement?” 

“It draws closer with every day,” Kun sighs, pushes his glasses up his nose. The lenses seem thicker, somehow. His hair just a touch greyer. “Dejun has expressed interest in taking over the shop, with Yukhei at his side.” 

“I would compare them to you and Sicheng, but I imagine there are quite a few differences,” he chuckles fondly, overwhelmed with nostalgia. 

In a time now faded in Ten’s memories, both Kun and Sicheng spent their time warming his bed. Young, reckless, enchanted. They found in each other the kind of love that Ten was too afraid to offer freely. 

Kun laughs, shaking his head. Time has changed him, though not without the blessing of magic. He’s still so very handsome, wrinkles and all. He is, and will always be, Ten’s favourite mortal. 

Ten already mourns what he is yet to lose. 

“Two mortals, wrapped in the embrace of a pretty witch,” Kun retells his story with heartbreaking fondness. “One who will never love them, not in the way they love him, nor each other.” The sound of porcelain on wood echoes in the silence. “Isn’t that familiar?” 

Ten realises that it is not Kun’s story that he tells, but Dejun’s. Yukhei’s. _Hendery’s_. Ten has wished, begged the magic that his pupil does not become an image of him, but he has been denied and cruelly so. 

He has known about Dejun, had his suspicions about Yukhei, but not once has he wished for his paranoia to be true. Ten is not a role model, has spent his entire mentorship attempting to prove it to himself, to Hendery, to magic. 

But Ten has seen so much of history, knows it is bound to repeat in the most unfortunate of ways. 

“It tore them up,” Kun continues, “they’re _brothers_ , you know? Not by blood but by something so much deeper.” 

“The masses will have many issues as to their relationship,” Ten sips his tea, holding the cup with shaking hands. “Having the same fathers first and second will hardly be the focus of it.” 

“Our Hendery has asked for their blessings, as you did with us,” Kun fixes him with a look; searching, unreadable. “Certainly you are one and the same.” 

It feels like an insult, and such things have never been directed at Ten, especially not when passing from Kun’s lips. 

“I broke your heart,” he says softly, in an understanding that comes decades too late. 

“I loved you,” Kun’s walls crumble. “We both did. We still do, in our own way. But it was never returned.” 

He sighs, runs a hand through the grey of his hair. 

“If you think I never loved you, Qian Kun, then you never knew me at all.” 

For the very first time, Ten cannot meet the eyes of his old friend. 

“You encouraged us to go on without you,” Kun, in an uncharacteristic display of anger, slams his fist against the tabletop. It is indicative of his frustration, the years of buried feelings that now seek solace in the light. “There was room for you, we both loved you so much.” 

“I told you to go on because it is what I would have done,” the wooden floors in Kun’s kitchen are fascinating, Ten’s eyes barely leaving them. “It’s what I _will_ do, as I have eternity and you but a lifetime.” 

“What a lifetime it could have been,” Kun sighs, defeated. “But as I have aged, I feel that was never magic’s intention for us.” 

Kun is not one of the chosen, though his trust and blind faith in the magic rivals Ten’s own. He cannot hear the whispered replies of magic in the wind, though still speaks to it, prays to it, remains blindly devoted. 

Magic is the God that Kun has chosen, not the other way around. Ten, on occasion, feels its flattery when Kun announces his devotion. 

“It is so fitting that magic gave you someone not unlike yourself,” Kun continues with a pained laugh. Their past, Ten’s abandonment, it will hurt for the rest of his days. “Though, my old friend, you will always be my favourite narcissist.” 

“It is not how you think,” Ten replies, forlorn and broken. He has not yet come to terms with his punishment, but prepares himself for the eventual reveal that the magic so obviously has planned. “Hendery’s heart belongs to another, I will never have my eternity with him.” 

Kun shakes, strangely, almost convulsing. The whispers, the ever-present swirling of magic, grow so loud that they are impossible to ignore. Kun’s fingers scratch at the table, pupils blown and eyes wide in awe. It is a familiar sight, but not one Ten has ever expected with Kun. 

He sees the magic for the first time, the overwhelming presence of eternity. Kun does not cope in the way that vessels do, tears of pure terror falling from unblinking eyes as he stares into the very fabric of existence. 

The magic has noticed its most devoted subject and offers a gift; its presence, its acknowledgement, a taste of the forever that Ten will have to endure. 

“ _Chittaphon_ ,” Kun gasps, though his voice is layered on a familiar whisper. “To love is not a punishment.” 

The whispers fade back into their place, the dull background noise that Ten has known for a lifetime. 

“My name is a gift,” Ten explains slowly. Kun is still overwhelmed by magic, but there are things that must be explained. “You are now the only mortal who knows of it.” 

“You’re wrong,” Kun gasps like he has been running for miles, breath uneven and throat dry. “Even in the darkness, it was Sicheng I saw.” 

Sicheng, out on errands, has seen magic while unguarded. A dangerous thing, but something deemed necessary by the forces that control him. Ten wants to run, to hide away and forget. To preemptively mourn those he has always loved, as he so often does when reminded of their frail mortality. 

But it is not the time; Kun and Sicheng need him, as they have always done. 

And when the still shaking Sicheng arrives home, Ten’s birth name on his lips, he knows that he has made the correct decision. 

The sun disappears beyond the horizon, the night illuminated by the dull yellow glow of the lamps outside. Two sets of arms wrap around his midsection; safe, secure, loving. Ten shares a bed with Kun and Sicheng, overwhelmed with familiarity and nostalgia. 

One last taste of the love he once had, changed so irrefutably by time and miscommunication. He holds the men that he loved, now old and damaged by time, with a sense of finality. 

It cannot happen again, it was dictated so by the magic. 

Because they cannot be Ten’s, and he’s come to realise, that he was never destined to be theirs. 

\------

“How often do you see Master Johnny?” Hendery asks, his head on Ten’s lap. He’s taken to staying home more often than not, now that Dejun and Yukhei have each other. 

“You see him as often as I do.” 

“But, before me?” Hendery sits up, eyes inquisitive. Sometimes he’s still the boy playing in the garden, one so hungry for knowledge. 

“From when I left until the last time he was here?” Ten searches his memories, hundreds of years happening simultaneously behind his eyelids. “I think, perhaps, twice?” 

“That is not often at all,” Hendery is frowning, thinking. It sends a chill down Ten’s spine; he knows what is about to come. 

“Johnny is a wandering soul whereas I am stagnant,” Ten explains, gently. “He’s off searching the world and I choose to remain here.” 

“If I left,” Hendery speaks so softly, so terrified of what is to come. “Then will you still be here when I return?” 

“You wish to leave me?” 

“Yangyang desires adventure and hopes I will accompany him,” Hendery sighs, collapses back into the padding of the chaise lounge they share. “I have never seen outside the city, so I will admit that I am curious.” 

“If this is what you desire, then I refuse to stop you,” Ten cups Hendery’s cheeks, presses their foreheads together. “I’ve had my time in the world, you must remember that. Because I choose to stay, it does not mean that you have to.” 

“Master, I am terrified,” he closes his eyes, breathes harshly through his nose. “I don’t know what I will see.” 

Ten thinks back on his time with Johnny; the terrors, the marvels, the mundane yet also the incredible. The world is more than the confines of their city, their little house surrounded by the modern world that they will leave behind. 

“You will see everything,” Ten breathes. He is selfish, wishes for nothing more than for Hendery to stay, remain by his side. “Yangyang, then, he is the one that you love?” 

“If I offered then he would not reject me,” Hendery replies, his head resting against Ten’s shoulder. He is aware that people desire him, that he could own nearly any heart within their city. “But when I leave, my heart will remain here, as it always will.”

“Your heart is your own, my love,” he links their hands between them, tracing his thumb along Hendery’s knuckles. “Perhaps it is time you took it with you.” 

His student remains silent, though his shoulders shake. It has been near a decade since Ten has last seen Hendery’s tears, and he hopes with all honesty that he goes an eternity more with their absence. 

“My love, what bothers you?” Ten pulls him onto his lap, into his arms. Like the tears that fall, their position is reminiscent of times long past. 

“I think I just got my heart broken,” he whispers into the skin of Ten’s neck. “Have you ever felt like this before? Is there a spell that can fix it?” 

He sobs, almost desperately, clinging to Ten’s robes as the emotional weights he’s held for so long begin to lift; slowly, gradually. 

“Your love is a fool, and you are better without him.” 

Hendery laughs, Ten can feel the ghost of a smile against his neck. 

“But he is _my_ fool,” he replies sadly. “And he will be for the rest of eternity.”

\------

Hendery’s departure is reminiscent of a parade. His admirers line the streets as he traverses through them, crying and waving, offering well wishes. Yangyang seems almost like an afterthought in the scheme of things, despite the adventure being his idea alone. 

Ten waits at the edge of the city with Kun, Sicheng and their family. Once, he would have felt out of place among them, but times often change and surprisingly, Ten changes with it. Perhaps, he thinks, as Kun takes one hand and Sicheng the other, this could have been his life if the magic so allowed. 

The departing duo offers their goodbyes. Yangyang hugs his brothers, his fathers. “Look after them all,” he whispers in Ten’s ear as he, too, experiences Yangyang’s near-constant warmth. 

Always one for showmanship, Hendery says his goodbyes in an entirely different fashion. A kiss, pressed to the lips of each brother in turn. Chaste and with giggles when offered to Renjun and Chenle, while deeper and full of familiarity as he parts ways with Yukhei and Dejun. 

“He is most definitely _your_ pupil,” Sicheng whispers, horrified as Hendery’s attention is turned to him. 

With a laugh, lips meet the cheeks of Hendery’s found fathers, and Ten sees Kun attempting to hold back his tears. He forgets, sometimes, that Kun and Sicheng were as instrumental in Hendery’s development as Ten himself was. 

Truly, they are his fathers, and far more suited to the role than Ten. 

Hendery stops in front of him, hands gripping at the front of his robes. He shakes, nervous, and Ten runs his knuckle along the sharp line of his cheekbone. 

“You said to take my heart with me,” he says. The others step back, mill amongst themselves as they say their final farewell to their brother. “But I’ve decided to leave it here. With you.” 

“My love---” 

Ten starts before Hendery cuts him off, a blackened fingertip against his lips. 

“Keep it for a little longer,” he says, “When I return, I’ll be ready to take it back.” 

Hendery’s eyes are screwed shut, his confidence wavering. He leans down, ever so slightly, and presses a kiss to Ten’s lips. It is unlike the playful peck he gifted his brothers, but with _meaning_. He steps closer, tilts his head, sighs. 

Ten breaks completely. 

He starts to respond, and for the briefest of moments, all is well. The magic buzzes happily, caresses against Ten’s skin in overwhelming support. 

_Finally._

Hendery steps back with a gasp. 

“I’ll stay if you ask me to,” he whispers. 

“Kunhang....” 

“Ask me to stay.” 

“I,” Ten sighs, resolute. He cannot keep Hendery with him, like a bird trapped within a cage. He should be free, and it is time that Ten breaks his shackles. “I will miss you.” 

His expression softens in a way that is completely broken. 

“I will miss you too,” he says. 

Hendery has become so like Ten over the years, it’s hard to tell their stories apart. He walks from town, head held high. 

And Ten knows, can almost hear, that whisper in the wind telling him:

_Don’t you ever look back._

\------

Ten falls back into a routine as the town forgets. Whatever dulling of fear existed during Hendery’s time with him, comes back in full force the moment he leaves. His enchantment on the city fades, the youth return to their modest way of dressing and Ten sells pipedreams laced with malcontent. 

Business is booming, the hoards of slobbering masses come to him for their quick fixes and dirty business, backstreet deals that end only in misery. It’s Ten’s lifeblood, what he’s good at.

All he’s good for. 

He casts his wickedness back into the world and the streets, once again, fall in terrified silence at the sight of him. 

Even the boys from the tailor shop, now men in their own rights, avert their eyes when their paths cross. It is as if they’ve never known each other, if Ten has never been a part of their family. He has not seen Kun and Sicheng in months, nor has he felt any desire to. 

Their time with him is over, a painful memory of the once beautiful past. 

He’s aware that he’s torturing himself. That the jobs he takes are ones he would have rejected, even before Hendery came around. His morals have crumbled and the city mourns under the reign of the cruellest of tyrants. Ten’s hands may be stained only with magic, but he swears he sees blood under his fingernails, blame he cannot scrub away, no matter how hard he tries. 

It’s the direct result of Hendery’s absence, though Ten has no one to blame but himself. It was not his student’s fault for his dependency, nor his eventual spiral into self-loathing. 

Ten has no one but himself to blame, and it is a punishment that comes far too late. 

4:23

The exact time Ten killed what Hendery should have become. He has always been destined for more, but Ten has chained him, imprisoned him, bound him to the static of Ten’s existence. He should be free, allowed to roam and enjoy his youth. The songbird will not sing in captivity, and Hendery will not flourish while Ten is by his side. 

His wings stretched in flight, Hendery leaves him behind and Ten takes out his anguish on the mortals that cower around him. 

They suffer at the fault of Ten; innocent parties and collateral damage in Ten’s war of self-destruction. 

He has no one to blame but himself, but Ten has never been taught to deal in self-reflection. The vessel of a volatile force, raised by an eternal child. Taking responsibility for his actions has never been his strongest point. 

And so he does what he’s been taught to, the only thing he’s good at. 

He dons his robes and makes deals with death, scrubbing the misfortune from his hands until his fingertips bleed.

\--------

“You look like death.” 

It is a strange sight, that of Dejun on his doorstep. Of course, he has visited the property countless times in his youth, though always with Hendery’s hand in his. The memories, the reminders, they have Ten’s heart clenching painfully in his chest. 

“Haven’t you heard?” Ten rasps, his voice gone so long without use. “I am the harbinger of it.” 

“Hendery wants to know how you’re doing, yet this is the message I’m supposed to relay?” He stands, arms crossed, at the threshold to Ten’s house. The vines, old friends of magic, play with the curls of his hair. 

“He speaks to you?” Ten whimpers. The days have blurred into one, time not passing as it should. He cannot fathom how much time has passed in Hendery’s absence, though judging by the weather outside, it has been near a full calendar year. 

“Weekly,” Dejun deadpans, “he _can_ astral project, or have you forgotten?” 

“You think I can forget anything about him?” Ten is aware of how broken he sounds, the shameful tone of his voice. He does not care, cannot bring himself to hide his misery. “He does not visit me.”

“Of that I am aware,” Dejun bats the vines away, but allows them to curl around his fingers in familiarity. “Whose idea did you think it was? Who do you think told him not to speak with you?” 

“It is not your place,” Ten positively seethes with anger, his fists curled and vision shaking. “How _dare_ you interfere.” 

“It would break his heart to see what you’ve become,” Dejun spits, “and I know that his heart could not handle that again.” 

“His heart is not mine to break.” 

“I have seen magic, _witch_ ,” the insult hurts more when it falls from Dejun’s lips, dripping with a poison more deadly than those at brew in Ten’s kitchen. “Years ago, in your garden. When I had Hendery and it took him from me.”

Ten remembers in vivid detail, the feeling of Hendery’s skin beneath his own, feeling the touch of hands that do not belong to him, in a moment that was never his to enjoy. 

“I saw eternity, and at the end, it was you and him,” Dejun grits his teeth, continues. “What blinds you to the point where you cannot see his love for you?” 

“I am his father---” 

“That cannot be further from the truth and you know it,” he speaks in low tones but the words echo like a shout. “Is that why you’ve rejected him? After so many years you’ve suddenly developed _morals_?” 

“Morality is not part of my business, Dejun,” Ten sighs. The topic too heavy for a doorstep conversation, Ten feels the weight of centuries on his shoulders. He resists the urge to sit, his legs buckling beneath the pressure of his long, long life. “I’ve never been a good person.” 

“The Ten I remember fondly made petals rain from the sky and turned my failed sewing projects into the puppies that my fathers never let us have,” his anger quelled, Dejun looks at Ten with pity. He reaches out, places a hand on Ten’s shoulder. 

Somehow, it lifts the weight instead of adding to it. 

“Who told you that magic and death went hand in hand?” he continues, stepping forward and drawing Ten into a hug. “What has the world done to you, Third Father?” 

Ten cannot contain his sobs, the strength from his limbs draining as he tumbles towards the floor. Dejun catches him, lowers him to the ground. He holds Ten as he cries, body shaking on the doorstep. 

“Father?” he has to ask, needs, so desperately to know.

“To all of us,” Dejun confirms, before wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Not to Hendery, though. Never to Hendery.”

“It is me,” Ten whispers, “the one he loves, it’s me.” 

“Of course it is,” Dejun smiles sadly. “There could never have been anyone else.”

\------

Dejun returns with a gift. Kun’s final hurrah as a tailor before retirement. His finest work, or so the accompanying note says, penned in Kun’s neat scrawl. Something unlike Ten, though somehow still managing to encapsulate him as a person. 

“His hands have started to shake a little too much,” Dejun replies, forlornly. “So the embroidery was me.” 

Ten doesn’t have to see the garment to know that he’ll love it. 

“Promise me you’ll wear it?” Dejun says, “all of it, and visit the shop when you do.” 

“Does it mean that much to you, my child?” Ten strokes the package lovingly, soft fabric concealed beneath paper and twine. 

“It has always been, and will always be, an honour to sew for you,” Dejun bows mockingly, an old habit from his teenage years. “Father.” 

“Enough of that,” Ten swats at him with a grin. “I have things to finish, but set a place for me when it’s time for dinner.” 

“I thought….” Dejun peeks inside the house, spots a room filled with bubbling cauldrons and self-stirring spoons. “Nevermind.” 

“Magic is not always as it seems, my child,” Ten takes his hand, offers it a reassuring squeeze. “And there is more to life than death.” 

“I trust you,” Dejun says, before spinning on his heel. “And I’ll expect you for dinner!” He calls out from down the garden path, petting the chattering marigolds as he leaves. 

Ten glances at the package in his hands. A simple cloak would not elicit such a response from the tailors, those who have been making his garments for near a lifetime. No, what he holds in his hands is something new, uncharted territory for both Ten and his wardrobe. 

He has lived a long life, dressed the same for almost the entirety of it. Not once has he dreamed of wearing a silk blouse, its collar high and chest embellished with stunning gold thread. 

Ten drops the robes from his shoulders, pulls silk along skin. The garment shines with the kind of magic that only Kun is capable of, and Ten feels honoured that he is the owner of his last ever piece. 

It is a treasure, one that Ten will hold dear for the rest of his days. 

He steps out into the setting sun, the dark colours of his clothes a familiar palette though the silhouette of his shape is new and tantalisingly unknown. Mortals stare in awe as they hide in fear; Ten grits his teeth as he strolls through the parted crowd. 

A bump against his leg, a collective gasp, a young girl staring up at him with wide, wide eyes. 

“We are so sorry,” says her father, rushing forward to collect his child. 

“Please, we beg of you, forgive us for her mistake,” her mother adds, clutching at her heart as she notices what her child has done. 

Ten holds his hand up, silencing their pleas. The crowd begins to murmur at the spectacle, debating between themselves as to the type of curse that Ten will undoubtedly place. 

“What is your name, my child?” Ten crouches to her level, offering a smile. 

“Yuqi.”

She seems young, not yet privy to the warnings of the adults, or too young to connect Ten with the _witch_ her parents whisper about. 

“Tell me, Yuqi, do you like flowers?”

From the sidelines, her parents watch on with bated breath. Ten pays them no mind. 

“I love flowers,” she replies excitedly, bouncing up and down on her little feet. “My favourite is daisies.” 

Ten taps at the air, and with each dotting of his fingertips a small flower blooms. He makes them dance as Yuqi giggles at the spectacle, before they arrange themselves in the fashion of a crown. The ringlet falls into Ten’s hands before he places it on top of her messy hair. 

“These are special flowers, ones that never die,” Ten whispers, and Yuqi lights up with glee. “Special flowers for a special girl.” 

She surges forward, hugging Ten. The crowd gasps and her parents cry out. 

Ten simply pats her head as he stands, before turning to her terrified parents. 

“Your child has done me no harm, so no harm will befall her,” he says, tries to smile, is still met with shock and fear. “You have a good evening, now.” 

He sighs, knowing that it takes more than a flower crown to reverse lifetimes of damage. Though still, he perseveres, a skip in his step. 

“And Yuqi!” He pauses in his tracks, spins, points to the child. “Eat your vegetables, okay?” 

“Sure thing, Mister Flower Man,” she singsongs, before taking her mother’s hand once more. 

The crowd remains parted in awe. 

Ten has lived a long, long life. He will continue to live, even after those around him are forgotten to time. 

Ten will never die. 

But he can be reborn.

\------

Time flows differently for those it cannot touch, though Ten begins to notice a distinct difference between days once he chooses to pay attention to them. He no longer hides, revelling in his own immortality. He’s part of a _community_ , and chooses to play his part as such. 

What he’s done may never be forgiven, not to the select few he has so cruelly scored. He makes amends as silently as possible, requests the lifting of curses he has placed in petty rage. 

The mortals say that time is the healer of wounds, but Ten prefers the use of magic. It does, however, take time for trust to build, and that is something no amount of flower crowns and lifted curses can change the course of. 

Years no longer fly, they begin to crawl; not unlike the children who have taken to playing in his front yard. They giggle and coo, petting the dancing flowers as the magic puts on a show. Their parents, on the other hand, react a little slower. A salve here, a syrup there. Occasionally, Ten is stopped in the street by those in search of gardening advice. 

The city seems brighter, somehow, matching Ten’s disposition. The next generation of youth begin their foray into witch-inspired fashion, and Ten finds that there is more money in selling crystals than in dealing death. 

It takes years, five of them, for things to completely turn around. Ten becomes a healer, delivers council, a trusted member of the community. The only lives he takes are out of mercy, painless brews administered to those whose suffering is without end. 

Strangely enough, he begins to ordain _weddings_ of all things, a trend brought on, as trends often are, by Yukhei and Dejun.

“True,” Dejun laughs, as Ten laments his busy schedule. “But you have brought the blessing of magic unto us all. That is all on you.” 

“Do you think he would be proud of me?” Ten asks, the silence broken only by Dejun’s sewing machine. There is no need to elaborate, for if there is anyone who knows Ten’s thoughts it is Dejun.

“I know for certain that he is,” a smile, a curse as the thread snaps, unravelling from the needle. “You sure you can’t offer the same blessings to my machine?” 

“I’m sure,” Ten laughs, placing his hand on Dejun’s shoulder. “There _are_ things I cannot fix.”  
\------

The sixth year of Hendery’s absence brings a different face to Ten’s door. One flocked by a gaggle of small children who recognise his marks as the ones belonging to Ten. 

“Sweet magic, they are relentless,” Johnny toes his boots off by the doorway, immediately taking his rest upon Ten’s chaise. “Just when I thought to be done with children, I am ambushed by more.” 

“Our Haechan has left you, then?” Ten busies himself with making tea, checking on his potions as he does so. Now that they restore life rather than take it, potion-making has become his favourite past time.

His robes hang, forgotten in his closet, books of poisons collecting dust on the shelves. Ten feels something akin to happiness, though it has been so many years since he last experienced it. 

“Yes and no,” Johnny sighs, “he comes back to me on occasion, as the ocean will always reach the shore.” 

“You seem to attract the fleeting type.” 

“And you the unwaveringly loyal,” Johnny raises an eyebrow. He refers to himself, though Ten is almost certain that his path has crossed with Hendery during his travels. 

“I do not know what you see in the world beyond,” Ten retreats to the sitting room, motions for the cups and saucers to follow him. “But then again, I feel I have seen too much of it.” 

“The world changes, almost constantly. I refuse to miss a second of it,” Johnny blows on his tea, cooling it with magic. “Though your pupil searches for something else, I feel.” 

“Ah, so you _have_ met,” Ten grins smugly, “and it is the reason for your visit?” 

“He searches for knowledge,” Johnny affirms, “he wishes to change you.” 

“I have already changed.” 

“You have, my love, and I am so very proud.”

The magic chatters around them. 

“I have gone so long without hearing its voice,” Ten sighs, “I do not know if I am following the right path.” 

“In my experience,” Johnny starts, pulling Ten into his side. “Magic only speaks in times of guidance.” 

“The magic has been loud my entire life,” there is familiarity in his hold, the scent of Johnny’s embrace something so nostalgic. “It feels awfully silent with it gone.” 

“ _You_ are magic,” Johnny pokes his chest, gently. “Never forget that, my love.” 

“What will you do, Master, when you finally catch Yoonoh?” Johnny’s visits have him feeling so young, vulnerable. It is a testament to their bond, the centuries of love between them. 

“I will hold him, and I will never let go,” Johnny replies, as if it is simple. And perhaps it is, perhaps Johnny grows weary of the chase. “But I don’t foresee that happening anytime soon.” 

His grin is childlike in its mischief. 

Nevermind.

\------

Ten scolds the child of three, gently, as he pulls too harsh on the petals of a snapdragon. 

“Come now, Jisung, we don’t treat the flowers like that,” Ten takes the child’s hand, mimics the stroking motion that his plants are the fondest of. “See? He likes that much better.” 

Jisung watches in awe as the petals dance beneath his fingertips. 

“Did you open a nursery while I was gone?” 

Ten, so preoccupied with the children, barely notices the familiar presence beside him. Hendery’s return doesn’t quite play out as Ten has spent years imagining, though the reality, somehow, seems so much better. 

“Time changes people,” Ten replies, “and I have become a glorified babysitter in your absence.” 

“You haven't aged a day, and yet…” he trails off, observes the sight of children in the garden with a disbelieving stare. “And yet, everything has changed.” 

“Are you another Magic Flower Man?” Ten has never seen the child who speaks, but she clearly knows who he is. She’s old enough to spot the marks on Hendery’s wrist, at the base of his exposed throat. 

“I thought we were witches?” Hendery mutters, for Ten’s ears only. “Truly, I am behind the times.” 

“More than you know,” Ten bats at a creeping vine, the first to notice Hendery’s appearance. It slithers towards him, leaves curling in an attempt to touch its old friend. “Hey now, keep your leaves off him.” 

“I have missed this garden,” he says, eyes fond. “The plants of elsewhere aren’t nearly as skilled conversationalists.” 

“Perhaps they’re not used to discussions with someone so beautiful?” 

Hendery laughs, the sight awe-inspiring. It is a sight that Ten has missed so dearly during their time apart. 

“I want to tell you of all the wonders I have seen,” he says. 

“Once the children go home, my love,” Ten links their fingers as they stand. “We have a responsibility to them, now, as unfortunate as that is.”

“I see through your coldness, Master,” Hendery says simply. “This is not the burden you make it out to be.”

“Of course it isn’t.”

Ten is a changed man, but his ability to complain about mortals remains eternal.

\------

Hendery is nine when his life changes. Fourteen when he is saved. Fifteen when he realises what love is, as he stares at his Master in awe, wondering how such beauty is even possible.

Hendery is ageless when his travels take him to many places, ones he’s only ever dreamed of. Yangyang lets him control the itinerary, as Hendery, raised on books penned by an eternal wanderer, already knows more about the world he has never seen. 

He takes with him a selection of blank pages, ready to be filled and bound; new tomes for the vessels future, tales of magic no longer tainted by death. He is spurred by the knowledge that he, too, will take a pupil. A soul not yet born, a name which has yet to be chosen. 

The magic whispers to him, a voice on the wind, about times yet to pass. 

He needs _time_ , and fortune favours Hendery as he seems to have an abundance of it. An eternity, in fact. But all the time in the world seems too little, and he has to wonder if his master ever felt the same. Like the weight of eternity crushes him slowly, drowning in the fear of doing the wrong thing by the one he is to teach. 

Ten has never been a perfect man, nor a perfect master. Hendery knows this, and loves him all the same. But he realises that eternal life doesn’t have to result in a tormented existence, not like the one his Master leads. 

Stepping away from Ten, leaving him behind, is the hardest thing Hendery has ever done. Taking lives seems so easy in comparison to the journey he takes, every footstep weighted with lead and regret. 

He would stay, if he were only asked. Because Hendery is weak, Hendery is in love and he has been since the age of fifteen. 

Ten, the consistent eternal in a world of fleeting inconsistency. The love he could never bring himself to dream of as a child. The ethereal beauty and unyielding terror that only magic itself can provide. 

_This is for you, not for him._

Magic speaks and guides, it whispers in Hendery’s ear as he travels. His constant companion, closer to him than anything else in the world. 

Sometimes, when Hendery attempts to sleep, foreign beds in foreign places, he asks for a reprieve. Because loving Ten from by his side is agony, but the distance has made it almost unbearable. 

_You are destined, you are part of my plan. Have faith in me, child, and all will be well._

Ten has a hold on his heart, and he has an eternity to live with it. 

Of course, he tries to forget. He finds warmth in strangers and their whispered compliments, their lips on the mark at the base of Hendery’s throat. It feels wrong, somehow, after a while. The touches he craves cannot be filled by that of the mortals he sees.

He tries, for a moment, to love Yangyang instead. The magic favours him, as it does all of Kun’s children; boys raised, not with magic, but in reverence of it. 

But the third brother does not ease the ache, like the unfulfilling love of the brothers first and second before him. Yangyang notices, understands, calls an end to their arrangement with a final kiss pressed to Hendery’s lips. 

It is year three without Ten, and he still holds possession of his heart. 

The world is beautiful, wonderful, incredible. Hendery learns so much, though his homebody nature aches for the comfort of the old chaise in Ten’s sitting room and the warmth of the fire. 

Hendery grows a little less weak, devotes himself to his duties and his newfound campaign. He knows that once he returns home that he will never leave it again, vows to see as much of the world as he can before he crumbles. 

_He thinks he has caged you, that you desire freedom from his hold._

Ten has freed him from torment and death, has saved his life in so many ways. More than fifteen years have passed since his aunt and uncle last touched him, yet he still feels the ghost of their blows in his nightmares. 

He does not think he will ever heal. 

But he will _live_.

And it’s all because of Ten.

\------

The children return home with their parents, their goodbyes tearful and met with promises to return. Ten doesn’t let go of Hendery’s hand the entire time, something that feels so natural to him after all the passing time. 

“So tell me what you’ve learnt,” Ten queries over dinner. It has been years since they’ve last eaten together, yet it feels as if no time has passed at all. 

“I wrote you some books,” Hendery offers excitedly, mid-chew. “Several books, just to add to your collection.” 

“I can’t wait to read them,” Ten hums, pauses, sets his cutlery on the table. “I must ask something of you, my love, and I apologise in advance.” 

“I have many things to tell,” Hendery’s eyes positively sparkle as he replies. “So please, Master, ask whatever you wish.” 

“You left your heart here when you left.” 

“I did,” he swallows thickly. 

“Do you wish for me to return it?” 

“ _Ten_ ,” Hendery says, hands slamming against the tabletop. “All this time and you still do not know?” 

“I know, and I feel that I have known too late,” Ten’s voice is quiet, “my love, are you still mine?” 

“I could never be anyone else’s,” Hendery sighs, “I have _tried_ and yet I cannot love anyone but you.”

“You are certain?” Ten has to ask once more, for clarity. They have eternity, and Ten will find giving him up to be difficult if he is to change his mind. 

“I was fifteen when I fell into a love destined for eternity,” Hendery says, quietly, before his voice raises in volume and conviction. “I have loved you for half my life, Ten, what’s the rest of it going to change?” 

“You’re stuck with me, now, until the end of days,” Ten says, and Hendery smiles at him fondly. 

“Forever is far less terrifying, now that I’m facing it with you.” 

\------

Magic appears on a whim and at the most inopportune moments. 

Ten’s mouth against Hendery’s neck, sucking marks in places once decorated by others. His hands, gliding along skin and a symphony of gasps played just for him. Hendery’s hands tangle in Ten’s hair, overwhelmed and in disbelief. 

_Open your eyes._

Gone is their bedroom, the warmth of the wooden walls. Surrounding them instead is the cosmos, the stars that twinkle amongst darkened skies. The ground beneath them, made by magic and softer than any mattress that Ten has ever known. 

He is beyond questioning their master, too caught up in Hendery, and the feeling of finally having him for his own. 

“I have dreamt of this,” he sighs, back arched as Ten’s lips travel along the skin of his chest. 

“As have I, my love.” 

_This is your reward. My favourite sons, I gift to you: each other._

“Thank you,” Hendery breathes, gasps, loses himself to the feelings. 

Ten chases his lips and swallows his moans, a blanket of stars illuminating it all. 

\------

The word _witch_ is associated with the most terrible of things: death, tragedy, heartbreak.

It is no longer used to associate with Ten. Nor with Hendery, the boy he raised and the man he loves. 

They have many names, titles, and it changes with those who use them. _Healer, helper, friend_. They are titles he loves, adores and holds so very dear to his heart. 

Magic is picky and magic is petty, but it acknowledges the good in even the worst of people, granted that its vessel can do the same. 

Because magic, above all, is an omnipotent child, and sometimes it needs to be guided in the ways of the mortals over which it rules. 

The city grows and blooms, modernises in the blink of an eye. Soon, it will outgrow Ten and Hendery and they will have to adapt and move on. But their time spent amongst the cobblestone streets is a time they will cherish for the rest of eternity. 

Whispers on the wind tell of a young girl, so very far away. She has a name, but the magic withholds it until the time is right, until Ten is ready to take his next pupil and Hendery his first. 

Until that time comes, the distant future when the plants in the garden are gone and the city swirls around them, impossibly modern, the small cottage is open for all those in need of a helping hand. 

Because there is nothing to fear in the house down the road. Not death, nor magic and definitely not Ten himself.

**Author's Note:**

> All my love to Miss Silvia who translated the title for me~ it's Italian for _a whisper in the wind_
> 
> Follow me on [Twitter](www.twitter.com/pharmarkcy) for more No Context Fic Screaming.


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